Reflections of the Soul
by Angel of Mystery-145
Summary: A cursed mirror; two lovers separated through time - a chilling story of the extremes one will go to, to be with the one they love. Modern day/some historical... An E/C suspense/mystery/drama with romance- revised 11/08 with M rating - 2004 movie/some Kay
1. A Mystery Begins

**Please note: This has been fully revised and now has an M rating due to some new or expanded scenes. Still nothing too explicit, but very sensual and too much for a T rating.**

**I**

The moving men carried the antique dressing table with its attached mirror to Christine's bedroom, set it in the corner directed, gave her a dozen papers to sign, and left without evidence of having been there.

At last.

She took in an awed breath, eyeing her new acquisition with approval. Ancient-looking carvings detailed the curved legs, scrolled edges, and small drawers of the nineteenth-century mahogany table and matching bench. The mirror's rim sported similar carvings, which looked more like hieroglyphics than actual designs, and for a moment she had the most absurd fancy that it was a form of ancient graffiti telling a story.

Her reflection gave a whimsical smile at her overactive imagination. She'd heard vague tales about this dressing table. When Gran's estate went up for auction, she called the lawyers and insisted they allow her to keep this piece. They could sell everything else, including the land, to cover Gran's debts. But not this one memento.

"You'll be wise to leave it to whoever wants it after I'm gone," Gran had said mysteriously, but Christine couldn't let it go, and the lawyers finally acceded to her request of withdrawing it from the catalogue. Now, it stood in her bedroom, her last memory of Gran. As she studied the top, she noticed a hairline crack in the mirror. Broken! Had the movers done that? At least it was so small as to be undetectable at a glance. Looking at the edges more closely, she noticed something else. The mirror appeared newer than it should be, recently replaced, perhaps in the last several decades. Certainly not an antique of more than a century like the wood. Frowning, she further inspected the glass. No discoloration, no graying at the sides, which would be noticeable in a piece this old. How very strange ...

Gran had hidden the dressing table away in an attic corner, cast aside, beneath a white sheet. The glass must have been replaced before Gran came by it, and now Christine wondered who the previous owners might be. Possessing a deep appreciation for all things antique, she wondered if the original mirror contained the same etchings. It must have; otherwise why go to all the trouble to have a glass made that exactly reflected the carvings in the wood? And why go to that trouble at all? Merely for show?

Shaking her head at the little mystery she'd conjured, she placed her toiletries on the tabletop, arranging and rearranging until all her things were neatly as she wished. She needed such routine and order when her life always felt so disoriented.

Weary from the long day, she decided to turn in early and took a seat on the padded bench. She drew a brush through her dark hair for its hundred strokes, watching her reflection do the same. Further memories of Gran scattered through her mind and she lost herself to bittersweet thoughts, until something jarred her from her trance.

She stopped brushing and leaned forward, looking deep into the mirror. Had she seen that? But seen ... what? She scoffed at the first idea that came to mind. It must have been a trick of the light, she decided firmly and resumed brushing her hair.

Something inside the glass moved.

Christine inhaled a startled breath, no longer ridiculing her initial thought, and peered at the top corner near a row of etchings along the inside rim. She sat in moonlight that doused half the dresser in an ethereal white glow. Could that have caused the illusion? Or did yellow light truly waver _within_ the glass?

Turning to look over her shoulder, she took note of the table lamp she'd left on. The shade over it emitted a green luminescence. But perhaps in the mirror with the moonlight streaming across it, the dim light could blend and appear yellow ...

The moon drifted beyond a heavy cloudbank, dimming the room and dousing her in shadow; a glance toward the window proved what she suspected. It looked like rain. She sighed. But then, it always seemed to rain in England.

Still uneasy, she glanced back at that portion of the mirror, watching it closely as she continued her bedtime ritual. No more strange occurrences transpired, and she felt sure her vivid imagination had run away with her once again. A trick of the lamplight coupled with her revisitation to dismal memories. That was all it had been; nothing more.

After dressing in her long flannel bed gown she crawled between the soft, welcoming sheets. In no time at all she lost consciousness to the outside world. And in no time at all, she felt his long slender fingers smooth down her arms, slide along her waist, slip beneath the folds that crossed her breasts, until skin touched skin and she writhed with pleasure from his heated caresses.

A song filled her mind, tender, persuasive, increasing in volume until it brought her to full awareness.

Startled, she quickly sat straight up, her eyes flying wide open.

She was alone in her bed, just as she'd been alone when she first slid inside it, just as she was always alone. But the song continued to trickle inside her mind. No, not inside her mind ...

Across the room.

From the mirror.

But that was ... impossible.

Christine stared at the dressing table that stood against the opposite wall. Her reflection appeared ghostly in the silver moonbeams, again coming from the window and painting her huge eyes as dark splashes against an ivory face. Indeed, she appeared to be the only ghoul in the room. She hugged herself and closed her eyes, blocking out her pale image as the song slowly faded to nothing.

The music must have come from a radio outside, an auto in passing. Yes, that made perfect sense. But even as she tried to go back to sleep in the heavy silence, she couldn't dispel the memory, nor the haunting beauty of the man's tender voice, which made her heart race as if he'd serenaded her alone.

**xXx**

The next morning Christine breakfasted on an apple-raisin muffin and a cup of hot lemon tea, intent on dealing with matters too long neglected. She'd taken a week off from work for just such a purpose. As she ate, she mulled over her life, or what little she knew of it.

Before finding her current position as clerk at an antique shop, Christine taught music at the local orphanage for six months but received complaints, mainly from those who rebelliously chose not to exert themselves, and frustrated, she quit. Through that incident she learned she possessed a low tolerance for lazy children who didn't wish to excel and guessed her own teacher must have been very strict with her training, instilling her with a rigid discipline regarding her expectations of others. Some told her this was a fault, others considered it a virtue. But she found her true strength rested in her voice, which Gran told her rivaled that of an angel, and Christine was often asked to perform solos in the choir. After first hearing her sing, Gran told her that to possess such quality and tone she had to have been trained and trained very well. Even the carriage her body automatically assumed before a performance must have been learned through instruction.

Christine remembered nothing of her life before coming to Gran's home. She simply ... began.

One overcast morning, a year and a half earlier, Gran found her near the orphanage, wandering in a park without knowledge of who she was or where she lived. She'd taken special interest in Christine, often commenting on the extreme manners peculiar to the youth of her own generation which Christine exhibited. When an extensive search produced no family or friends, Gran adopted Christine, calling her "her old fashioned girl."

As a director at the children's home and her new guardian, Gran had Christine checked by a number of professionals the week she found her. Upon examination, a dentist assumed Christine to be about sixteen years of age from the appearance of her teeth. She'd been amazed that teeth could tell a person's age. If the dentist was to be believed, she was now seventeen, perhaps eighteen. And if the home's psychologist was to be believed, she was sane, though at times she doubted his findings.

Because in her darkest dreams, though she seldom saw his face, and when she did it remained in shadow, a man lay with her and made passionate love to her. Shortly after Gran found Christine, she told her she was too young to have been married by law. But the warm feelings that surged up inside were those familiar with the act of intimacy between a man and woman. After all of the dreams her ghost lover visited, she awoke in an agitated state, her breathing rapid, her body afire and ultra sensitive to touch, aching for his arms to hold her again, for his hands to caress her skin, for the feel of him truly with her, inside her.

A doctor confirmed she wasn't a virgin and the police questioned if she'd been raped and lost her memory during such a violent attack. When she encountered Gran in the park, Christine wore nothing but a satin bed wrapper. Bruises covered her body, and she looked as if she'd rolled downhill, her hands and feet bare and bleeding, her hair and robe covered in burrs. But the emotions she experienced went beyond mere physical knowledge of a sexual act. Whether with a husband or merely a lover, she felt certain the deep attachment must be real.

Every part of her yearned for the touch of this man from her dreams, as if she belonged to him. Yet no wedding band circled her finger when Gran found her, and no one came forward to claim her. Surely, if such a man did exist, he would move heaven and earth to be reunited. And so, with reality a constant disappointment, she dwelled within her sporadic dreams that at times seemed more solid and true than the world in which she lived.

Often she anticipated those nights, so she could lie with her fantasy lover, and she dreaded their arrival as well. She always awoke dissatisfied from such dreams when he did visit them ... only to discover he was never truly there. And she was left, as always, alone. Lately, she'd begun to question the psychologist's initial evaluation of her sanity and wondered if mental instability could contribute to memory loss. But it did no good to dwell on a past Gran often told her was better left forgotten since it couldn't be remembered. And at this rate, Christine would never get the present day started.

Once she cleaned and put away her few dishes, she returned to her bedroom. Her attention riveted to the dressing table. The rays of bold sunlight that blazed a path through the window did nothing to dispel the mystique of the piece's ancient, unique beauty.

On a whim, Christine grabbed her digital camera and took pictures of the carved ledges built into corners like miniature grottos, the shallow, smaller drawers over deeper ones, and the strange symbols carved into the dark wood and etched along the glass. Those were no ordinary symbols, and she couldn't shake the feeling that the dresser contained a secret message. Each scribble was unique, a few repeated, as if strung together they spelled out words. She'd become good friends with a local librarian during Gran's confinement, due to her constant need for books to give Gran some form of pleasure while she valiantly fought the terminal cancer. Maybe Antonia could help solve the mystery, if indeed there was one.

Compelled and unable to prevent her hand's movement, Christine pressed against the top corner of the mirror, where she'd seen the wavering light. The glass didn't give one bit and felt cold and solid beneath her fingertips. Feeling a bit silly now for her fantastical thoughts related to the previous evening, she continued her morning ritual and wove her long riotous curls into a braid over one shoulder, not wanting to deal with the flyaway mess today. Needing order ... any order ...

An hour later at the library, Antonia greeted her with a smile, adjusting her chic blue glasses that flattered her fair, slender beauty. Though ten years apart in age, she and Christine shared a bond often found among dear friends.

"Christine! It's wonderful to see you again. You look smashing."

"Hardly that," she laughed, "but I am feeling better." She pulled her camera from her purse. "Actually, I was hoping you could help me. I took these shots of a dresser that was Gran's." She turned the camera on. "I wondered if you might help me figure out where to start looking for answers to these carvings."

Behind the glasses, Antonia's blue eyes grew wide as she surveyed the digital screen. "Oh, my. Nothing European, that's for certain. They look like letters … Egyptian? Or perhaps … Arabic? I'm not sure. We have a few books on hieroglyphics and other languages at the back."

Antonia took Christine down long, carpeted aisles flanked by two-story high shelves of books. "Hmm, here's one that might be helpful." She bent to pull a thick tome from a low shelf. "That dresser … by chance, it wouldn't happen to be the same dresser with the old mystery connected to it, would it?" She spoke in excited but hushed library tones, and Christine answered with the same barely suppressed eagerness.

"Gran said it was shrouded in mystery but never told me much about the dresser itself. Her explanations were ambiguous … almost, I don't know; fearful? Hinting at ideas and stories she never allowed herself to finish."

"Hmm. That _is_ strange. I always thought her so level-headed." Her every action fluid, her stance graceful, Antonia tilted her head and wrapped one arm around her waist, surveying Christine while tapping an index finger against her cheek. She once mentioned that she descended from a long line of dancers, one of her ancestors having been a protégé at the famous Paris Opera House and going on to achieve great fame. A few other men and women in her family tree enjoyed similar successes. Antonia often joked that her own identical destiny must have been switched at birth.

"Did she tell you of the mystery? And the curse?"

"Curse?" Christine's eyes widened. "No, but I should like to hear it."

"It's quite the tragic story." Antonia's expression suddenly grew sad. "It involved a newly married couple. The dressing table came to them as a wedding gift, but a curse was involved - can you imagine?" She laughed, rolling her eyes. "In this day and age it seems ludicrous that people would believe such fairy tales, but in the nineteenth century such stories were given credence. I personally think whoever wanted to sell the dresser in past decades attached a ghost story to give it a higher value and a price tag that reflects the ghoulish tale. Antique collectors - tourists especially - love eerie stories that come with their pieces. But I hardly need to tell you that, do I?" She chuckled.

Christine smiled in agreement. "Do you know any more of this 'ghost story'?"

"I work in a library and spend every free moment reading whatever I can get my hands on. What do you think?" Antonia laughed, instantly lowering her pitch as she darted a quick look around, then continued. "The husband was tragically disfigured - I don't know how that came about or why. But he had many enemies. The dresser was given to them by a Persian, I think, someone of high rank. Maybe a shah, but I could be wrong about that. A month after they married the man's wife disappeared. Just vanished from their bedroom one night into thin air - poof!-" she snapped her fingers, "- or so the story goes. Her husband searched high and low, but they never found a trace of her, except for her hairbrush lying on the floor against the dresser. Some say it's haunted, you know, the dresser, and her ghost is trapped inside - that led to tales of the curse, you see. It's rumored that for her to escape and her spirit to at last find rest with her husband, whose spirit also is said to wander always near, looking for her - she must find another to take her place." She shivered delicately, her eyes wide, clearly entranced with the tale. "When I first read of the mystery, I wondered if perhaps the husband murdered her and concocted the entire story of her disappearance, but apparently she hadn't a penny to her name - he was the wealthy one. And rumor had it they were very much in love. Losing her destroyed him."

"How absolutely horrible!" Such sorrow wrenched Christine's heart at the tragically poignant tale, whether real or contrived, and she felt almost consumed by Antonia's words. Yet the rumor of a ghost intrigued her, though it hadn't been a woman's voice she heard. "Do you know, was there anything, um ... strange about the dressing table related by those who bought it? Before Gran owned it, of course."

"Strange?"

Christine felt awkward for airing the question. "Any, oh ... odd occurrences? A voice heard within perhaps?" Her face grew warm with how intently Antonia stared. "You did mention a ghost inhabits the dresser."

Antonia smiled in humorous disbelief. "Only in the public's vivid imaginations, I'm sure!"

"Of course. That's what I meant. There's certainly no such thing as haunted dressing tables, is there?" Christine agreed quickly, eager to move on to less shaky terrain of the same subject. "Have you clippings of the incident? I should like to read about it."

"We might have something on microfiche. The crime, if that's what it was, took place in the early 1870s - and you might also find useful a recent magazine article I saw on local mysteries that Scotland Yard was never able to solve. I remember mention of this story. I can locate it for you if you'd like."

"Please."

While Antonia searched, Christine claimed an empty table nearby and flipped through pages of the tome on hieroglyphics. She quickly became frustrated with the college text and professorial words but located a few pages with illustrations of symbols. Unfortunately, none matched the symbols on her dressing table.

"Here you go." Antonia set a magazine on the table. "You really are interested in solving this hundred-year-plus mystery, aren't you?"

"I'm not sure exactly what I'm trying to do," Christine admitted. "There's some sort of a pull I feel toward the dresser, likely because it last belonged to Gran, even if she did want nothing to do with it. At this point, I would just like to discover all I can though. Before Gran, do you know who owned it?"

"As far as I know it came with the house."

"So, it was passed down through the family?"

"I would assume so. Your Gran inherited the estate from her husband, General Chagny, after he died in the Second World War. The dresser was in the house when he inherited it. Your Gran stowed it away in the attic a few months after she married. I know, because my mum was good friends with your Gran, since their mothers both came over on the same ship from France. When we spoke of the recent auction, Mum said the dresser agitated your Gran when she was a young woman and she preferred to be rid of it altogether, but didn't feel right about asking her new husband to dispose of a family heirloom."

"She never told me." Christine drew her brows together in curiosity. "Why did it disturb her so much that she wanted it out of the manor?" She wondered if Gran had also heard the haunting melody and Christine hadn't imagined its source.

"Mum never said. I can ring her on the telly if you like."

"Miss Giry," a stern voice broke in a short distance away. "If you've quite finished with your visit, I need you to cover for Shannon in research."

"Yes, Mrs. Fairaday. Of course." Antonia winked at Christine. "The old dragon lady," she whispered.

Christine smiled. "Thanks for your help, Antonia. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Any time. What are friends for? Actually …" She grew pensive. "I know a professor of languages from the local university. He's always open to questions, and not just from his students. I can give you his email, and you can contact him if you don't find what you're looking for. It's worth a try."

"That would be marvelous. Again, thanks."

Once Antonia scribbled the email address on a scrap of paper, then hurried back to work, Christine located and read the magazine article. The incident was given three short paragraphs, no names included. But in those three tragic paragraphs, Christine deeply felt the husband's sorrow. A promising composer, he searched for his new bride for over a year; until, distraught, he retreated from the world and his music. No more was heard from him again.

Tears fell from her eyes and hit the page. She wiped the moisture away before it could blend with the ink and damage the print. The mystery composer must have loved his wife dearly. She wished a picture had been included with the article. She would have loved to see the face of such a man, and the woman he so adored.

**xXx**

**Please review and tell me what you think- good or bad (as long as it's not flaming) :)**


	2. The Encounter

**II**

After a quick and lonely dinner, Christine uploaded the pictures from her camera to the laptop Gran bought her for Christmas. She typed an email to the professor, attached pictures of the dresser, and hoped she wasn't assuming too much by sending them. Antonia did say he loved to answer questions related to his profession, and Christine hoped that kindness extended to total strangers with large email attachments.

She cringed at her impetuous act but gathered her fleeting courage and clicked the send button.

_Christine ..._

She froze at the faint whisper that drifted through the air.

Only silence followed, and she managed to shake off her unease.

Obviously her imagination was again going into overdrive due to the ghost story Antonia earlier told. Or perhaps the gusts of sudden wind sighing against the tree limbs, two of which also rubbed together directly outside her flat, somehow produced the sound of her name. That conjecture sounded more foolish than the prospect of ghosts, which didn't seem at all implausible after the majority of what she experienced in the little she knew of her life.

Dusk had settled around the fringes of the room, masking her surroundings in the deep purple of twilight. It had been another mentally and emotionally exhausting day; perhaps she should retire early, though a soak sounded nice first. No, on second thought, it sounded heavenly. Deciding that was exactly what she needed, she shut down her computer to indulge in a little bit of heaven.

The long, hot bubble bath helped soothe the tension from her shoulders and neck, the silky water so much a comfort she fell asleep and slid down, waking as her chin hit the bubbles and a whisper brushed her ears.

_Christine_ ...

Her eyes flew open. Again - her name. Or perhaps it had been a dream this time? Had she been asleep long enough to dream?

She strained to hear more, but only the soft fizz and pop of dissolving bubbles met her ears. The water was still hot enough to make her sleepy and not wanting to risk the likelihood of nodding off a second time and getting her hair wet, she ended her bath.

Minutes later, she padded into her bedroom, her rose silk wrapper tied around her. Shunning all apprehension to approach the dresser, she firmly seated herself before it. Pulling out her hair clamp, she let her thick braid fall. She slipped off the elastic band that held the plait together and separated the strands that had gotten wet anyway, despite her attempt to keep them dry.

"Come back to me."

Her heart pounded hard and she held a shaky breath. Not imagination nor wind nor a dream – a whisper had come from beyond the mirror. A man's whisper. Not a woman's, not a trapped ghost … or was he a ghost?

She stared, wide-eyed, at the objects of the bedroom reflected in the expanse of silver glass. Nothing out of the ordinary appeared that didn't belong to the room. Save for the presence of the moon and lamp, no unexplained lights wavered in a mirror that once seemed pliable. No ghoulish illusions were present. No long dead composer wandered amid the shadows, searching for his lost bride.

She gritted her teeth. She wasn't going insane, she wasn't … and she wouldn't allow a fictional ghost story to compel her into believing the opposite.

Closing her eyes, as if that would also block out sound, she tried to steady her breathing and resumed unraveling her hair. She picked up the brush and pulled it through her wild, thick tresses.

"Christine, my Angel of Music …"

The brush fell from her hand at the audible sound, no longer a whisper she could try to dismiss. But now a clear voice, as if he stood in the room with her. A beautiful voice, musical and lilting, even in those few words. _Angel of Music ..._

She had heard those words before.

"Who are you?" She forced her trembling lips to form syllables. They came out as mere breaths, and she swallowed hard. "_Where_ are you? And how do you know my name?"

"Oh, Christine …"

This time his words came as a faded sigh, a breath of sorrow that filled her with sudden despair.

"No, wait - don't go!"

She jumped to her feet, wildly looking around the shadowed room for a glimpse of him, then stared back into the mirror's depths, hoping to see far beyond its reflections. A misty form, the image of his face … anything.

"Come back." She pressed trembling fingers to the hard, cold glass. "Please, come back." Her words came slight, pleading, ending in a forlorn whisper. "Don't leave me ..."

Tense minutes passed, endless in their silent cruelty, but regardless of her pleas, the man didn't respond or speak again.

Heartbroken, though she couldn't understand her reaction to his departure, she lay down on her bed and cried herself to sleep. Her slumber lacked dreams, her ghost lover not visiting either, and she woke long before dawn, muddled and upset, with the same feeling of deprivation she experienced the night before.

"Either I truly am insane and hearing voices, or I'm pining over a ghost," she mumbled to herself, then laughed without humor. "Two of them."

She moved through her morning ritual with little interest and later, spread raspberry jam over buttered bread, only to look at it with no appetite. Sighing, she set the uneaten breakfast down and pushed her plate aside, then poured herself another cup of hot tea.

"I may as well get down to business," she announced to the quiet room, trying to break her mind free of dwelling on beings that didn't exist.

Talking to herself had become habitual, and she wondered if this was a precedent to a lonely future. She hadn't made friends in town, except Antonia, feeling strangely as if she didn't belong to their world. Old-fashioned ideals and mannerisms had been buried deep within her person, though her existence remained a mystery, and she couldn't seem to "click" with other young men or women of her age. Often she felt older, even older than Gran.

Mulling over the wretchedness of her life was getting her nowhere. She couldn't keep putting off the inevitable.

Locating the sole carton, she dug through its interior, pulling out what was left of Gran's mementos, one by one; sentimental treasures the lawyers packed away under Gran's orders to be saved for Christine. She found it sad that what was left of one person's entire lifetime could be packed into a small box.

From within protective tissue, she carefully withdrew Gran's favorite teacup and saucer that she used up until the day she faded from this life, setting the items aside, then pulled out a square biscuit tin filled with old letters and other personal correspondence. A velvet box also lay in the carton, and curious, Christine opened it. Inside she found an antique gold locket, its front painted with an enameled red rose.

Recognizing its value at a glance, she was surprised something so costly had escaped the collector's catalogue. A note inside from Gran's lifetime friend and attorney explained that he'd been able to save the family heirloom for Christine, having met all costs of Gran's extensive hospital stay, myriad treatments, and the subsequent funeral, by selling the Chagny land.

Christine fingered the beautiful locket, her mind taking another track. How Gran had loved her husband's ancestral home. Yet during the few short months Christine resided at the manor she often felt uneasy, strange - as if she _did_ belong there ... and also as if she didn't.

Despite her erratic feelings, which so often made little sense, she felt troubled that Gran's home no longer remained in the family. No distant relations, if there were any, could come to England and claim it. Soon it would no longer exist. A business development had grabbed the coveted land as soon as it went on the market, and plans to tear down the manor and build flats were in progress. At least they wouldn't destroy the quiet stream that ran along the back, or the beautiful forest beyond.

A tear ran down Christine's cheek at the thought of the tiny, strong-willed woman who had come to mean so much. Without Gran in her life, there was no telling where she would be today. And without her presence now, she again felt like a wandering child, with no sense of purpose in where she was going or where she had come from.

Dismally, she shook her head and set back to work, putting aside the locket. Beneath a wrapped parcel, which a peek inside revealed a length of folded blue satin, her hands made contact with a leather-bound book, the last item in the box. Upon removing it, she saw that she held a journal, the first page dating back to the day Gran met the General, at that time a Captain.

Curious about the woman who sacrificed so much for her, Christine burrowed into her cozy armchair and began to read.

**xXx**

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! :)**


	3. A Memory

**III**

Christine smiled at the uncertainty of the young girl who'd been shown attention by a "handsome captain of the RAF" and felt no qualms about reading the story of their sweet romance, which six months later led to marriage.

Her eyes widened when she read the next entry.

_Although I'm leery to change things overly much, being a new bride in such a great manor, and uncertain if I have what it takes to fill the shoes of the great Captain's mother, I cannot abide having that piece of furniture in our bedroom any longer. _

_I've told no one the extent of my imaginings, lest the Captain fear he has married a lunatic and sends me off to an asylum, but I know what I heard, and more than once. The dressing table spoke to me. Even as I write these words, I see how absurd they appear yet cannot scratch them out. It is a blessed release to put pen to paper and write what cannot be said. What I have written is a truth I shall take with me to my grave; a voice inside the mirror whispered a name: Christine. _

Christine almost dropped the book. Her breathing stalled, her head felt light. She hadn't known her name when Gran discovered her in the park. Gran had given it to her, as she had given her everything else. Had she taken the name from this incident with the dresser? But why should she give Christine the same name, since the encounter affected her so adversely?

Thinking of the sad story Antonia had related, she wondered if Christine was also the name of the widowed composer's wife, and if the ghostly tale that comprised their tragic love story bore any credence. After reading this, she felt it must.

She should be afraid, but strangely, she wasn't. Not of being lured through the mirror by his lady ghost, as the curse warned. Nor was she afraid of the man who had sadly called out to her to come to him, calling to "Christine," and she suspected he was also from a previous century, the spirit of the woman's distraught husband. Like her dream lover, he too had instilled within Christine a feeling of warmth and closeness, even awareness. She had deeply identified with his gentle words, so tragic in their torment, and her heart had ached for his loss, wishing to reach out to him, to help him somehow. She still wished it. Yet if this couple's sad tale was more than an old ghost story and Christine placed herself in danger by bringing their dresser into her flat, she would much rather be armed with all knowledge than susceptible through ignorance, so as to determine what must be done next.

She flipped through several pages until she found more.

_Imagine my shock when I discovered that the Captain's poor aunt suffered a complete emotional collapse during her first night at the manor. Upon her visit, when Phillip was but a child, his aunt had been given the room with the dressing table. Some say she went mad that first night; others say it had not been long in coming, that she was always eccentric. Whatever the case, she flew into a crazed fit and broke the mirror with a chair. When they found her, her hands and arms bled from cuts of the flying glass, but still she continued to swing the chair at the dresser and had to be restrained. _

_I dare not tell Phillip of my own experience. Yet I consider it a pity his father thought it important to replace the mirror, down to the last wretched symbol etched upon its glass, which he found from a picture, and that he didn't just dispense with the dressing table altogether. He claimed to Phillip he had a reason, relating to an ancient ancestor, the Count Raoul de Chagny, and his stipulation to his sons that it always remain at the manor, intact. Any part damaged was to be replaced in exact duplicate, and this order had been carried down throughout the generations. Unfortunately, Phillip's father never elaborated on the cause of such a strange mandate before his death. _

_At least Phillip has agreed to stow the dressing table away in the attic. He doesn't like the monstrosity either. Whatever beauty the piece holds was lost on me the first night I heard its tortured whisper. I'll never forget it as long as I live, and yet, as the days fade into weeks, I ask myself, was it all in my imagination? Perhaps his aunt truly was barmy and I'm allowing her lunatic behavior to cloud my reasoning. No matter, it is out of my sight now, so I can continue on with my life as though the vile piece never existed. _

Sure now that her theory must be correct, Christine closed the book, restless. The name of the Count seemed familiar, and she assumed Gran must have spoken of him when telling of her husband's family, though she couldn't remember the occurrence.

Without clear thought that she did so, she soon found herself in her bedroom standing before the dresser. "What secrets lie within you?" she whispered, her fingers gliding over the carved wood she had seen for the first time days before. "What ghostly world do you conceal – or do true ghosts inhabit your frame?"

The manner in which Christine learned of the antique had been a fluke; during tea one day, in Christine's presence, a friend of Gran's asked what had become of the antique vanity dresser. Then, as on future occasions when Christine introduced the topic, Gran quickly changed the subject. The few times Christine persisted, Gran brushed over the matter with concise explanations and vague stories left unfinished. Now Christine felt she understood Gran's hesitance to discuss it. Yet rather than recoil from its mystery, as Gran and the Captain's aunt had done, Christine desired to know more.

The antique both terrified and fascinated her, so that she could think of little else since she had received it. She sat on the foot of her bed and stared into the glass, not at her reflection, but at every inch of the glass itself.

Time passed as morning shadows lengthened across the room. In a half daze, she pondered all of the mysteries she'd finally heard and read, including the ghostly couple's loss of each other, until her mind tenaciously slipped into its customary struggle of her own mystery and loss and how she came to be in this place.

"Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do …" The melancholy words spilled from her heart to her lips; she didn't know where she'd learned the tune but assumed it had been buried in her past. "There will never be a day when … I won't think …" She swallowed hard, fighting for control. The tears that washed her eyes now trickled down her cheeks. "… of you." The last words fell from her lips in a whisper.

Erik.

The name filled her mind like a glow of warmth on a cold winter evening.

"Erik," She said aloud, her heart speeding with the sound of his name on her lips, her body responding with desire on hearing it voiced. She repeated the name again, and again. And she knew.

_Erik_ was the man in her dreams. He had made her feel alive, as she never felt when awake.

Save for one time.

She inhaled a sharp breath that had gradually quickened. Last night, the man who called to her from the mirror, who called to his Christine, had reached a deep part of her that made her _feel _again. Or had it been the same part of her soul that he touched? And at last she faced the fearsome truth.

Those beings that didn't exist or no longer existed brought her to life as no one in this present world ever had … or could.

"Dear God, what has happened to me?" she questioned in a frightened whisper, staring at her pale, startled reflection. "What _is_ happening to me? Am I a ghost too?"

The phone interrupted her troubled introspection as she tenaciously clung to what was left of her sanity. She forced herself to rise and grabbed it on the fifth ring.

"It's Antonia," her friend said as soon as Christine answered. "Can you come to the library for lunch - say in an hour?"

She didn't see how she could face anyone right now, not even her friend. "I'm not sure. I –"

"It's important. I have something you'll want to see." Antonia's voice held a peculiarity Christine had never before heard.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes, of course. Jolly good. Just come as quick as you can."

The hitch in her friend's words didn't make Christine feel one bit reassured.

**xXx**

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I'll update again soon. (words to "Think of Me" from ALW's Phantom of the Opera: lyrics and music by Charles Hart & Richard Stilgoe)**


	4. Christine

**IV **

Christine wasn't sure how she made the fifteen minute walk to the library without exploding from pent up worries and the fearful knowledge of what little she now understood regarding the mystery and about herself. Add to that, the apprehensive excitement to know what Antonia discovered and she was barely coherent. Somehow she kept her voice low and level as she asked the white-haired librarian at the front desk for Antonia.

Her friend appeared within seconds. "Come with me," she said without preamble, and Christine followed, her fingers digging into her clutch.

"I was going through old files, cleaning out cabinets, and I found records of old newspapers," Antonia explained as she led her into a back room, and Christine took the sole chair at the table, Antonia's intent, serious manner making her legs too unsteady to support her. "Reprints, not originals, we kept from when we put clippings into microfiche years ago. The originals are now at the London Library." Antonia's sentences came disjointed as if she also had trouble maintaining logical thought. "I was thinking of our conversation, when I ran across this."

She plunked an 11 x 14 folder down on the table, protected in clear plastic. The cover's label, typewritten in black, displayed the year: 1871

Christine cast a curious glance toward Antonia, whose eyes were somber, then turned the flap, her hand shaking. Old yellowed pages had been Xeroxed onto new ones and covered with protective plastic. Convivial talk of the theater, of members of society, of an upcoming ball plastered the first page. She turned to the next and froze. Her breath lodged somewhere in her throat and tingles of disbelief shot through her body, seeming to short-circuit her heart, for she was certain it, too, must have stopped.

There, in the center of the page, her own dark eyes stared back at her from an artist's sketch, forever frozen in a moment of time.

_The former Christine Daaé, the entrancing soprano who took Paris by storm with her two exquisite performances, has vanished from her husband's estate with nary a trace. The young diva had been supposed liable for an incident involving the fire at the Paris Opera House three months prior to her disappearance, along with a man said to be her collaborator in the destruction, the infamous Phantom of the Opera, whose identity was often speculated but who remains, to this day, a mystery. It is rumored that this Opera Ghost was in reality a man named Erik, the eldest son, long thought dead, of the Count of Chagny. The matter was never proven and, with all the aplomb of the ignoble nobility, neatly swept beneath the carpet. Nonetheless, with this new chain of events, speculations have once again arisen …_

Christine's head swam as her fingernails dug into the plastic. The written words brought images to her mind, not as an account of history but as a memory once lived.

The terror of the night of the Don Juan opera; their frightening escape to Erik's lair. Passionate kisses preceding tears, followed by the mob's arrival and her narrow escape with Raoul … Days later, her reunion with Erik at the de Chagny estate followed by weeks of uncertainty, of discovery, of shared love. Their marriage and suggested journey here, to England, where Erik thought they would be safe at last …

"Oh my God," she whispered, clutching the edges of the table to keep from falling.

The entire world span, and she felt the inexorable pull of her body being dragged downward, similar to when she slowly walked toward Erik in the wedding dress, with the high water impeding her cumbersome skirts and trying to trip her, to pull her below the surface ...

Tears ran unchecked over her cheeks. Muted sobs shook her shoulders.

"Christine?" Antonia queried softly as if afraid to speak. She rushed to her side and put a supporting hand to her back as she crouched beside her. "You look as if you're going to pass out. Would you like some water or maybe have a lie down? There's a settee in Mrs. Fairaday's office."

Christine numbly shook her head, unable to respond. At last she turned unfocused eyes to her friend. "If there is some way," she rasped, "I must find my way back to him. Will you help me?"

Antonia awkwardly fell to her seat on the floor, her lack of grace uncustomary. "Then, it's really true? I thought the sketch a strange coincidence, or perhaps you are a descendant. But the resemblance, the detail, is beyond uncanny ... right down to the small mole high on the cheek. It's _you_."

"Not a ghost trapped inside a mirror," Christine whispered on a laughing sob, "but still a ghost. Trapped inside another dimension, another time."

"You're no ghost," Antonia countered, her tone firm, though her words shook. "You're flesh and blood, and as alive and real as I am."

"Perhaps not a ghost in the exact sense of the word, but I've never felt as if I truly belong to this world. Ever since Gran found me wandering in the park, I've felt like … a visitor. Even … trapped in a life that didn't fit. Like I was going mad." She looked down at the page in her hands, spreading her trembling fingers over it. "Now I understand, now it's crystal clear. Reading this feels more real to me than the past year and a half has been. _This_ is home."

Antonia's mouth parted further. "I never thought this kind of thing possible. Time travel?" She gave a slight disbelieving shake of her head as if reason still fought revelation. "It's absurd, like something out of a fantasy movie. Being a librarian, of course I've heard of stories with parallel universes, and alternate histories - where the scope of time remains unchanged, constant, but in two different dimensions. But this …" She shook her head again more firmly. "This is the _real_ world. Not illusion. _Reality_."

"And yet, to me, this 'real world' has always been the illusion." Christine felt unable to answer what she herself didn't understand. "I cannot tell you how this happened or why. But I can fill in the pieces that are missing." She briefly closed her eyes as memories, once chained, fell into the empty slots of her mind with alarming velocity now that she understood. "I was born to Swedish parents; my father was a famous violinist. I don't remember my mother, she died when I was very young, and my father also died when I was young. I went to the Paris Opera House to live."

Her slight smile toward Antonia became tremulous with realization. "It was one of your ancestors who took me in and raised me. Madame Giry. She was the ballet instructor and like a mother to me - but very strict, especially in matters concerning the ballet." She laughed through her tears. "And Meg, Meg is her daughter, a sister to me, and my dearest friend. We are a year apart in age, but she would be your great, great - great grandmother? Or maybe a cousin?" Christine let out another laughing sob. "I'm not sure how many greats are involved, but I'm sure you must be related though you share the same surname and she wasn't yet married. You have her fair hair and delicate features. And poise. She probably was the one who experienced such fame in your family. The one you told me about. She was the best dancer of all of us."

"Far back in my family tree, near the end of the nineteenth century, two second cousins did marry with the same name of Giry," Antionia admitted in a dazed monotone then gasped as realization struck. "But – that would make you close to one hundred and fifty years old!"

"At least I show my age well," Christine quipped, "walking ghost that I am." Tears still wet her eyes as old memories settled into her heart and became her reality.

"It just doesn't seem possible."

"What more do you need to convince you? Would you like to know about the Phantom of the Opera the paper alluded to as being my collaborator, and exactly who he was?"

Christine's expression gentled as she ran her fingers over his name on the page. "He was my Angel of Music, my guardian, my teacher, and my lover." She met Antonia's stunned eyes. "He is my husband; we were married only one month before … this happened. And because of so many obstacles, so much anger and uncertainty and resentment and pain – it took us some time to reach that point. I have always loved him, but did not always act wisely. We both had to learn to forgive and trust again before we could be together. But once we did …" she let her words trail away.

Her eyes fell closed in remembered delight as she recalled those idyllic days of being Erik's bride, and could almost feel his warmth pressed against her now as she remembered their last night together. Still wrapped in the bliss of their recent lovemaking, Christine had been unable to sleep though Erik had not encountered the same problem.

She had kissed his unmasked face, so peaceful in slumber, then left their bed and pulled on her wrapper, intending to locate a maid to ask for a hot toddy. Something Madame Giry had given her when she couldn't sleep as a child.

A glance in the mirror revealed her long wild curls in complete disarray, so Christine had taken a seat before the dressing table and laboriously brushed out the tangled mass to make herself more presentable. Erik loved her to wear her hair loose whenever possible and she never bound it before bedtime, as was the custom for women of her era, gladly suffering the consequence for his pleasure. And hers, she thought, recalling the sensation of his fingers tenderly running through her locks, over her scalp, entwining in her hair and gripping handfuls as he passionately kissed her.

"Christine?" Antonia urged softly.

"On that night, the light of the moon washed through our bedroom window, drenching me in a pool of brilliance. I had no need to light a candle it was so bright. I remember sitting before the dressing table, brushing my hair out, but nothing after that. That part of my memory remains in darkness up until Gran found me." She shook her head, wondering why her mind would still blank that out now that she recalled all else. "The vanity dresser was a wedding present from an old acquaintance of Erik's. That same dresser stands in my flat now – the dresser Gran feared. So you see, Antonia, I _am_ the lady ghost of your tale."

Antonia only stared in shock; the dawning of belief touched her eyes.

"Yesterday, you said the man whose wife vanished was disfigured," Christine went on in a flood of words, unable to stop now that she knew who she was, eager to speak, to reveal the truth, "but you didn't know how. I can tell you: he wore a mask on the upper right side of his face to hide a deformity from birth. But his deformity didn't mar my love for him; he is the most magnificent man I've ever known, the most passionate, the most exciting, the most … beautiful. Though that may sound odd to you, he is beautiful. Beauty exists within his spirit, inside his voice, deep in every facet of his being. I feel empty without him, lost, yes, even a ghost. For you see, as I am to him, he is the reflection of my soul."

Antonia's eyes widened in troubled perception and she glanced away, unable to meet Christine's gaze.

"What?" Christine urged, leaning forward. "There's something you're not telling me. What is it?" Her nails pressed into the armrests of the chair. "Is it about Erik?"

Still not meeting her eyes, Antonia gave a slight shake of her head and raised her hand to chest level, a sign she couldn't speak at the moment.

Fear again attacked Christine, its bite sharp.

**xXx**

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! If things aren't quite clear yet, I promise they'll be made clear as story goes along. :-) **


	5. Erik

**V **

"Antonia, if you don't speak soon, I fear I may implode," Christine joked feebly. "My heart is racing and you're not helping matters. What are you keeping from me?"

Antonia pressed her lips together, as if debating whether or not to speak.

"Please," Christine prodded.

Her friend inhaled deeply then let out a noisy breath. "When I looked through the microfiche last night, I came across information about the Vicomte Erik de Chagny, um … your husband."

"Yes?" Christine dreaded the concern in Antonia's eyes, afraid for her to continue, afraid for her not to.

"His death notice was in the microfiche, Christine. It said his butler found him a year and a half after he lost his wife. Sources said he died in his sleep from a broken heart … although …"

"What?" Christine fought back a fresh torrent of tears.

"Rumors were circulating …" She cast an uneasy glance at the news folder. "About another mystery involved …"

"Rumors? A mystery?" Christine's frustrations escalated as she worked to get the truth from Antonia. "Tell me!"

Her friend gave a slight nod. "Supposedly a maid found an empty vial of poison that had rolled beneath the dresser. To avoid possible scandal to the de Chagny name, Erik's father squelched all gossip and the doctor wrote off his death as a heart attack. But stories like that, whether true or not, always seem to have a way of getting out."

"_Poison …?"_

"Christine, I'm so sorry."

Antonia's expression conveyed sympathy, but Christine looked away and shut her eyes against the emotion. She didn't want to fall apart completely and struggled on the verge of doing just that. To know that he would do such a thing ... she remembered how once he almost gave up at the opera house and allowed the mob to find him. Before she left with Raoul that fated night, she returned with her ring and found her Angel sitting listlessly, like a child, singing to his music box. Not hiding, not escaping … as if resigned to his death.

_Oh, Erik._ Her body went limp. She endeavored to remain seated, gripping the front edges of the chair arms for support. Such pain lanced her heart that she could scarcely draw breath.

"It could have just been the rumor mill at work," Antonia tried to comfort, but the suggestion didn't ring true. Erik once told Christine that she was the only one to make his song take flight, the only reason he desired to live.

Christine struggled to think. "You said the notice stated he died a year and a half after my disappearance. I've been here exactly that - a year and a half …" An urgent thought reached up through her misery. "What was the date of that newspaper account?"

"The date?"

"What month did he die? What day?"

"I don't remember. I'll have to look."

"Please do."

"Would you like to read the—"

"No."

Antonia nodded in understanding and hurried away.

Christine stared, unseeing, at the opposite wall. To find him again, to find herself – only to lose him once more? It was inconceivable. She couldn't let it happen. After one hundred and fifty years it shouldn't surprise her to learn a notice of his death existed. But that in his misery of losing her he'd cut short his promising life – that the world had never known the mastery of his music, the knowledge of his genius – filled her with a pain so deep, a sorrow so immense, she could barely form a lucid thought.

Somehow, she had gotten here; somehow, she must find a way back, before it was too late. Deep within her soul she knew it had not been his ghost who spoke to her through the mirror. Even last night, when she begged him not to go before realizing who he was, before realizing who _she_ was, a small part of her sensed what made no sense. The reality still boggled her mind, but she knew he was yet alive – living in the century in which she once existed. Perhaps the possibility was only slight, but she clung to what little Antonia offered – that time could run the same course, parallel, in separate dimensions. And she prayed that the prospect existed in more than just fiction.

An eternity seemed to pass while Christine waited for Antonia's return. Memories from long ago filled the gaps of the past year and a half … her wedding day when Erik had given her his gift – a song he composed for her, the words issued deep from within his heart … that same night, when she'd given him the gift of herself, and she in turn received the knowledge of true ecstasy … Days and nights of singing with him, of helping him compose a new aria, of conversing with him about so many things, including the children she hoped they would have.

He feared their offspring would bear his mark, but Christine desired to give birth to his child. It was the solitary issue about which they argued, and something they'd been working through, though as often as they expressed their love behind closed doors, it surprised her that she'd not become pregnant during that one glorious month they shared. And she'd begun to fear that she was unable to conceive.

Even if that were true it no longer seemed to matter. All that mattered was Erik and finding her way back to him. Of _living_ a life with him.

_No, Erik, no, you cannot be dead._

She hugged her waist, as if by holding on she might hold herself together. For surely, she was coming apart with every wretched breath she inhaled, every new revelation …

Antonia entered the room, her eyes wary in a face that had paled.

_No, no, no, no …_

Christine's nails dug into her sides. "What did you find out?"

"He died – they found him – late on the evening of October 31st."

"That's tomorrow." The blood rushed from Christine's head though she remained seated, and she closed her eyes, forcing her mind to focus. "If the time is exact in these worlds we both experience, in this alternate history or parallel universe or whatever you called it, that would make the time of his death literally … tomorrow," she gasped.

Antonia nodded, compassion in her eyes. Terror rushed through Christine, but girded by a swift and even firmer wave of determination. She would _not_ let this happen!

"You have to help me get back to him before tomorrow night, Antonia. I have no idea how, but I'm certain the key lies within that dressing table." She groaned. "Oh, _why _can I not remember what happened on the night I came to be here? I remember everything else now. If only I could recall what I did and what happened, I would know how to find my way back."

Antonia again crouched beside Christine, touching her arm in comfort. "I've read the mind still baffles doctors. In cases like yours, the memory can come back all at once, something from the past setting it off, like that old account did and seeing your picture, or it can come back in spurts, or not at all. At least your memory _did_ come back."

Christine nodded sadly. "I think it began when I first heard his voice call to me from the mirror. I was miserable when he left last night, and today a verse I sang for my debut at the opera came to me while I was thinking of him."

"I also read that on occasion the mind blocks out traumatic experiences," Antonia said carefully. "Memories too horrible to recall."

"There cannot be anything more horrible or traumatic than being separated from my husband." Christine's words came resolute. "I have to get back to him, Antonia."

"I know."

For over a year she'd felt empty, as though she'd lost half of her soul. Now that she understood the reason, the thought of a life without Erik made Christine's heart bleed. She couldn't imagine an existence without him. How she managed this past year and a half, even taking into account her complete memory loss, was beyond her comprehension.

"Did you contact the professor about those carvings?" Antonia asked, breaking the short silence.

"Yes, but he hasn't returned my email."

Antonia thought a moment. "Do you have your camera on you?"

"It's at my flat. But I already emailed him the pictures."

"Smashing. Come along." She stood and grabbed Christine's arm. "We haven't a moment to lose."

"Where are we going?" Christine grabbed her clutch that had slipped to the floor, and rose from the chair.

"Professor Mallory's office. I know him well enough that they'll let me inside without an appointment. He and my Grandfather are old chums."

"But, won't you get in trouble for walking off the job? Tell me where he's located on campus. I can find him."

"Not a chance. I'm going to help you get back to the 19th century and your Angel of Music even if it means I lose my job doing it. Besides, I'm sure there are other positions out there more rewarding than working for the old dragon lady." She grinned.

"Thank you, Antonia." Fresh tears wet Christine's eyes as she hugged her friend. "Words fail me; you're a true Giry."

**xXx**

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :-)**

**FemmeLoki—answering your question: nothing was ever given away in the book though some thought it odd that Phillipe (Raoul's older brother in the original story) knew right where to go when everyone else so easily got lost below the opera house. So there was some speculation about Erik being related to the de Chagnys. I guess only Gaston Leroux will ever know what he had in mind as he wrote his characters. lol But speaking for myself only, almost from the beginning I've thought Erik was Raoul's older brother or a first cousin; in the 2004 movie, they even had the same hair color, though Gerry Butler wore a wig for that last part. :-) So I guess you could say I'm acting on my interpretation of the book/movie, of them being related, in creating my phanphic (s).**


	6. The Curse

**VI **

At the university, the secretary greeted Antonia as a friend, inquiring after her mother, then buzzed Professor Mallory on the intercom. He gave his visitors permission to enter at once.

In an office cluttered with artifacts from around the globe, a white-bearded gentleman sat behind a desk, equally cluttered with historical books and stacks of papers. He rose as they entered, his suit coat absent, his necktie loosened, though he made an attempt of adjusting it as they approached.

Antonia introduced the professor to Christine, and they shook hands. At Christine's earlier request, Antonia withheld the scope of their startling discoveries, not wanting to alienate him from possibly helping, which he might do if he thought Christine insane.

He motioned to the two chairs that sat across from his desk. "Please, take a seat."

Christine sank to the brown leather, feeling both relieved to know her past and anxious to learn the future. But she had calmed immensely during the drive; Gran once told her everything happened for a purpose. Surely, her ownership of the dresser at this time, then hearing Erik's voice, which had led to her own self-discovery was no coincidence. Destiny must have planned a purpose, other than defeat. She clung to that hope.

"Your pictures," the professor said to Christine as he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingertips in front of him, "are of quite some interest to me. The symbols carved upon the dressing table evolve from an ancient language in Persia—Pahlavi inscriptions from the Sassanid Empire to be precise. Some of the carvings weren't easy to decipher; the camera flashes upon the mirror prevented a clear view. But you sent enough close up shots and at enough angles that I was able to decipher the entirety of the line running along the top. I researched all night; I couldn't sleep with the discovery."

"Then they are important?" Christine asked, sitting forward in her chair in excitement. She clarified, "The message. It is a message?"

"Yes, it's a message, and yes, I believe it's important. I don't think the artist would have inscribed such a message on the mirror if it lacked significance. Stranger still, the piece, itself, appears to be of French origin. Yet the symbols are most decidedly from this dead language of Middle Persia. Each of the squiggles and curves form a letter of the alphabet. As to what the message means, well, your guess is as good as mine." He searched through one of his folders and found a sheet of paper, handing it over to her. "It appears to be a riddle of some nature."

With a hand that shook, Christine took the computer printout of one of her pictures that exhibited a full view of the ancient letters at the top of the mirror. Above and below the professor had scribbled handwritten notes to himself. She found and read his translation aloud, "'Never will the sun turn back the minutes. The hours, the days, the years hang suspended in sorrow. Only the full strength of the beacon of Al-Mah captures the key to time.'"

"It sounds more like a curse," Antonia said quietly.

Christine blinked, stunned. She couldn't control her body's trembling as she met Antonia's steady gaze across the room.

"It does, doesn't it?" the professor ruminated. "Hmm. I should like to see the dressing table and take a closer look at the other symbols upon it, if I may?"

"Of course," Christine agreed. "Would you like to see it now?"

"Goodness no, child." He laughed. "I have class in an hour and a full schedule all week."

"But, next week will be too late!" Christine blurted before she thought.

"Too late?" He arched his thick brows in confusion.

"Christine is thinking of selling the dressing table," Antonia said quickly, and Christine shot her a look of gratitude for the quick save.

"Hm, I see." The professor glanced at each of them, his eyes shrewd, but didn't question further.

"I suppose the first step to solving the riddle will be to find out who or what Al-Mah is," Christine said to Antonia, who nodded.

"Oh, I can tell you that," the professor said. "Al-Mah is the Persian moon goddess."

"Moon goddess," Christine breathed. "The full strength of the beacon of Al-Mah … the one who rules the moon. But, what does it all mean?"

"The moon is often called a beacon in literature," Antonia offered in growing excitement. "Especially in poetry."

"That's right. And if it's at full strength …" Christine's eyes widened with realization as she recalled her last night with Erik. "There was a full moon that night! I was sitting in its glow, near the window – remember, I told you it was so bright I had no need for a candle." She glanced down at the paper. "The beacon at full strength captures the key to time," she whispered in awe.

The shock of understanding covered Antonia's face as well.

"When is the next full moon?" she asked the professor. "Do you know?"

"My, this does sound intriguing. Are werewolves involved?"

"Please, Professor," Antonia urged. "This is very important to us."

The joviality left his eyes and concern replaced them. "Very well, I'll look." He flipped a day calendar on his desk. His brows lifted. "Well now. It would seem the mystery only deepens."

"What do you mean?" Christine asked.

"Perhaps there may be room for werewolves and every other creature of horror in your plans after all. It appears the next full moon will be tomorrow night: All Hallows' Eve. Known widely by the more common idiom: Halloween."

"Tomorrow night then." Christine felt lightheaded as she rose, and Antonia did the same, offering her thanks.

"Yes, thank you for your help, Professor," Christine said. "Any day you wish to see the dressing table, please inform Antonia. She'll show you in if I'm not there. I plan on leaving town soon."

"Oh? A visit to the countryside?"

"No, actually, I doubt you know of this place. Except perhaps in your research." At his obvious confusion, she realized she'd said too much and with a glance to her friend, she followed Antonia to the door. Christine halted suddenly and looked back. "One last thing. You deal with ancient languages on a daily basis, and I'm sure you've run across curses involving them?"

"Yes," he said with a nod.

She inhaled a steadying breath. "Tell me, purely on speculation, suppose someone learns of an ancient curse in existence. Do you believe it possible that it can be broken or reversed? If that curse has already been put into effect?"

He looked a little taken aback. "Well now. The annals of history do show methods exist to reverse the evil. Often to do so, in my personal opinion, one must return to the place where it all began. Armed of course, with a pure heart, with faith, and with courage. And the key to understanding." He tapped the side of his head. "You must acknowledge the source, the power of the evil, in order to understand how to fight it." He gave her a paternal smile. "Are you researching for a paper, my dear?"

Christine didn't correct his assumption that she was a student there. "No. But you've helped me more than you realize. Thank you again for your time."

Outwardly she offered a calm parting smile. Inwardly she trembled as his words further convinced her of what she must do.

**xXx**

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! :) ****Terbear—Yes, I most definitely plan to get this all up by Oct. 31st. :-) **


	7. A Discovery

**VII **

"I don't like leaving you like this," Antonia said once she dropped Christine off. "If I hadn't promised Mum that I'd help her with her dinner party tonight, I'd stay. I could probably get out of it early."

"No, it's all right. Don't worry about me," Christine reassured, stepping out of Antonia's mini and ducking under the umbrella she held against the downpour of rain. She turned to look inside the car at her friend.

"Are you sure, Christine?"

"Yes, I'll be fine."

"Right-o, then. I'll definitely come over tomorrow night, to help however you need me," Antonia called out over the spatter of heavy drops hitting the pavement.

"I'm depending on it."

With a parting wave, Christine hurried inside the building as Antonia drove off. Shaking the rain from her umbrella, she closed it while moving down the corridor to her flat. Unlocking the door, she let herself inside, relieved to be alone at last.

She preferred solitude at this time; she had so much on which to dwell and didn't wish to pass the evening in forced conversation, which she would most certainly be doing if her mind lay elsewhere. Before pulling off her slicker or setting down her things, Christine went to her bedroom. The dressing table stood solid and dark in the gray shadows.

"Dear Erik," she said to the mirror, though she doubted he could hear her. "Don't give up hope. Please, don't give up. I'm coming to you. Somehow, I _will_ find a way."

She remembered another mirror and conversing with him through its glass. The days at the opera house seemed as if they belonged to another time, another place, and in truth, they did. That evening, more than a century ago, he opened a mirror for them to meet and for her to enter his domain which existed far beneath hers. Tomorrow night she must find the key to open this fateful mirror that separated not levels of earth but worlds through time, and reunite with her lover. But how?

The professor's words came back to her. Pictures, yes … she must take more pictures of the carvings, since he'd been unable to read all of the messages due to the flash. She wanted to know every inch of what that dresser said.

Eyeing the room, she determined the best lighting as she set down her things and shrugged out of her coat. She took the shade off the lamp, bringing it close to the dresser, on the floor. From the main room she brought in a second lamp and plugged it in on the other side. She hoped she had produced enough light for the Persian symbols to be seen clearly without need of a flash.

With her digital, she took longshots and close-ups of the sides of the mirror, its bottom, and the carvings running along the wood. Satisifed with the results, she uploaded them to her computer and sent them to the professor with an urgent request to decipher them and send her their message as soon as possible, before tomorrow night.

One day. She had only one day to right a grievous wrong neither she nor Erik deserved.

"A day is as a thousand years to God, and a thousand years is as one day," she remembered Gran telling her, stating the line came from the Scriptures. From the moment they met, Gran helped strengthen Christine's fledgling faith when she'd had nothing to cling to. Somehow, though, she knew of God's existence. Now she remembered her firm Catholic upbringing and quiet moments of reflection in the chapel after lighting a candle for her father. She wondered if a dormant seed of her childlike faith had remained for Gran to nourish back to life, and wished for the peaceful solitude of her little chapel right now. There, she had escaped from the cares and concerns involving the opera house. There, she had found her Angel of Music, a magnificent man, who had become her world.

If only she could find him again … no, she _must_ find him again. If all time lay within the scope of the Creator's grasp, then He was not only the originator but also the Master of that time. Wasn't he?

Her room wasn't a chapel, but she had nowhere else to go. Perhaps she was foolish to do so, here, in her flat, but desperation prodded her to retrieve a votive candle and light it. For her Angel.

Christine knelt beside her bed before the steady flame of the rose-scented candle, its sweet aroma bringing a wealth of other memories regarding the single red roses he gave her. Determined not to succumb to more tears, she clasped her hands and bowed her head as she had so many times in the past.

"I asked once, and you gave me courage to face a frightening situation at the opera house. I'm asking again; please, Father, give me that same courage. I don't understand about alternate times or histories or how they could even exist. I don't care to know how or why they do. All I care about, all I ask is for you to help me find my way back home to my husband … Please, help me. I love him so. I don't want to live a lifetime without him." While the minutes elapsed she remained in silent meditation, trying to find peace from the turmoil inside her spirit. And, as it often had before, the sacred ritual she'd practiced since childhood did give her some consolation.

But an hour later, as she prepared a small dinner of canned salmon and cooked carrots, and the rain continued to beat against the panes, she cast a fretful glance to the dark skies seen from her window. Another worry troubled her.

What if the moon didn't make an appearance tonight as she hoped? Whenever it had shone on the dresser, she heard Erik's voice or saw the glass waver. Perhaps her ability to leave this dimension couldn't take place until the following evening, when the strength of the moon would be at its apex, but she desperately wished to connect with Erik before then. Since she had heard his voice during those moonlit moments, he might be able to hear her, as well.

Nightfall seemed never to descend. Toying with her food, she managed only a few bites. She felt in limbo now that she knew she truly didn't belong to this century and was impatient to leave it. While she waited for the hand that told the hour to pass three more revolutions around the clock, she read further in Gran's journal, hoping to find something within its faded pages that might help her. Toward the end, the entries grew few and far between after the General died and the years elapsed. Then she saw her own name mentioned.

Curious, she read Gran's impression of their first meeting. Her eyes widened when Gran admitted that Christine's wrapper belonged to another era, both in style and materials. She wrote: _The exquisite Alençon lace, the most expensive of its time period, has not yellowed one iota; nor has the blue satin faded. Despite its soiled appearance, the wrapper looks as though a seamstress has only just made it for her. I have seen nothing like this off the racks, even in the expensive boutiques of London ..._

In shock, she read of the fear that possessed Gran should someone learn the truth. At mention of a photograph found in one of the General's family albums, the convincing factor that Christine had indeed come to her from another century, Christine flipped through the remainder of the journal. No picture lay tucked within its pages.

Disappointed, she suddenly remembered the biscuit tin in the carton with Gran's other personal items. She retrieved it and dumped the contents on her bed.

Hurriedly, she shuffled through an assortment of photos, clippings, and letters. Her fingertips brushed the ruffled edge of a sepia-toned daguerreotype and she pulled it from the pile. She let out a startled sob, cupping her palm over her mouth as hot tears rushed to sting her eyes. For the first time in well over a year, she looked upon her husband's beloved countenance. A faded image, but after so long with nothing but a memory, this was gold.

His eyes, so passionate and intense, beckoned her, seeming to wrap inside her soul. He didn't smile, but not many who had their photograph taken in that era did. The entire process was a lengthy one, Christine remembered, and for someone who didn't possess an inordinate amount of patience, grueling as well. But for her, Erik agreed to undergo the ordeal.

His lips edged up slightly at one corner in that wry, amused quirk that always made her heartbeats quicken. Knowing the hard leather was often an irritant to his flesh and desiring above all else his physical comfort, she'd finally convinced him not to wear the half mask for their small, private wedding ceremony. Only a few family members attended, all who'd previously seen his face after his escape from the opera house and knew his true identity - save for the photographer, who was paid well to keep his silence about the entire affair.

In his father's drawing room, near the hearth, Erik had turned toward her so that his right side didn't entirely meet the camera, while she stood close to him, her arm linked through his as she gave a slight, mysterious smile and stood proud in her wedding lace and finery. Nothing could have kept the joy from her heart that afternoon. She had been certain nothing would ever separate her from his arms again. They had married and left Paris that same day.

"Oh, Erik." Betrayal knifed through Christine, so severe, she felt as though she'd really been stabbed. "All this time, she knew … Gran _knew_."

Christine pressed the aged photograph to her heart and curled up on her chenille bedspread. She gave into the tears that had been building for hours and wept for the days forever lost to them … as well as a lifetime together that she feared they might still lose, if her plan to return should fail.

**xXx**

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! :)**


	8. The Connection

**VIII **

Once her tears ebbed, reason returned. With a couple of tissues Christine dried her eyes, bloodshot from numerous crying spells over the last week - first in losing Gran, now in discovering her loss of Erik.

Whatever her faults, Gran had loved her. During the short time she'd known the kind-hearted woman, Gran sacrificed everything for Christine, putting her needs first. Surely, she must have had good reason to remain silent about her discovery. Yet Christine failed to understand what would cause a person to conceal such crucial information. Gran knew how troubled Christine was at not remembering her true origins and how depressed that often made her feel. Why had she done it?

She found her answer on the next page of the journal.

_Christine had another nightmare tonight. The poor girl has had terrible dreams every night for weeks, often calling out in her sleep for someone named Erik, but tonight she kept mumbling about how a mirror tried to kill her. Strangely, in the morning she has no recollection of such dreams, (at least she's not mentioned them to me), and I have no desire to remind her of their existence. I only hope and pray that she will likewise forget this evening's nightmare._

_I haven't a clue what sort of a situation that poor child left, but the condition in which I found her - panicked, bruised and bleeding, with a lump on the back of her head and walking in a zombie-like trance near the Chagny estate – makes me wonder if she came that way into our time. Perhaps someone from her past was responsible for such horrid abuse. How could anyone harm such a dear young woman, almost still a child? And yet there is an aged look of knowledge in her wide, haunted eyes, so innocent but far from inexperience, that often causes me to question what she has seen and what horrors she has known in her short life. _

_She talks and behaves as if she's foreign to this world, and in more ways than I can count. The doctor confirmed that she's intimately known a man. In this age of forgotten morality that doesn't come as a shock; what does surprise me is the outward purity she yet retains. Was the poor girl attacked and molested? If so, by whom? Someone from her time? Perhaps she escaped the man, Erik, and somehow stumbled across a portal into our world? The answers I crave may never be found. Indeed the questions belong to a science fiction movie and perhaps are foolish to dwell on, and I am the fool. Yet through recording the facts as I know them in this journal, I at least can reason and retain a hold on sanity._

_I have no doubt the mirror of which she spoke in her dreams is the one attached to the dressing table; I have long sensed its evil. I know she must be a de Chagny, the very Christine of whom the mirror whispered to me many years before we met, and with God as my witness, as I write these words, (for I dare tell no one), I shall never allow that sweet child to come to harm again. I don't know what sort of life she left behind, but I will do all within my power to give her a happy one here, in this century. The doctor cautioned that a rapid transition into her past or being forced to recall it could be dangerous, depending on what tragedies she encountered and what her mind is now hiding. As far as I'm concerned, her past doesn't exist. The doctors haven't a clue that her history truly does belong to another lifetime. Should they sense what I believe is fact, and also hear her speak in her dreams, I fear they would lock us both away._

"Oh, Gran ..." Christine sighed and closed the book, dwelling on all she'd read, unable to continue. "Erik would never harm me. Others … yes, he did harm. But never me." She didn't understand why her mind wouldn't let her remember how she arrived here, but she did know her husband would never cause her physical injury or callously frighten her. Whatever happened, Erik wasn't at fault. This time.

He'd been to blame for many "accidents" at the opera house in the months before they married; even murder, which had stunned Christine, causing her to run from him in fear and pretend with Raoul, setting even more strife in motion. Eventually she came to forgive Erik when he later asked it of her, able to understand his desperation to protect himself and his blind rage to punish the populace who continuously hurt him, though she abhorred his vengeful schemes and told him so. Piangi, he'd explained in distress, he never meant to kill, only take by surprise and render unconscious. But the heavyset man fought back and though Erik wasn't weak, he frantically tightened his hold with the fear that the tenor might make a noise and give him away. In the weeks that followed, after hearing much of his heartrending tale while staying as a guest at the mansion, Christine silently agreed with the Comte de Chagny, who'd long thought his eldest son dead: Erik had suffered enough punishment, over three decades worth, for his crimes of passion.

He ran away at a very young age, unloved and unwanted, later found and used as a sideshow act by cruel gypsies. The Comte shamefully admitted that in his foolish youth he neglected to show his son even a morsel of affection, more predisposed to how society would respond by condemning him for siring a marked child. When Erik was still a babe, he'd hidden him away behind locked doors; even his own mother had shuddered to draw near. Only after more than twenty years, once the Comte investigated and found his eldest in a distant, nondescript inn following the opera house devastation, did both Raoul and Christine learn that the Phantom of the Opera was his older brother, a revelation both men still struggled with and one that yet amazed Christine. Nor had Erik made peace with his father or his mother, though he did speak to them when necessary.

Christine thought about her current discovery. She'd forgiven Erik, even Raoul, for many offenses. Surely she could find it in her heart to forgive Gran for withholding her identity. Had she not done the same for Erik in withholding his?

She'd forgiven him when for more than half her life he pretended to be a celestial being come to guard and guide her, but was, in fact, the Phantom of the Opera, who later abducted her in an outrage of jealousy and fear - by a twist, also saving her from a riotous mob. She was astounded with all she now remembered – everything – of her life. And Gran also saved her when Christine didn't even know her name to take care of herself. Perhaps guilt had made Gran compensate by giving her that part of her true nature.

She looked beyond the pain of Gran's deceit and acknowledged the gentle woman's motive wasn't entirely selfish. She'd been trying to protect Christine from her past and from discovery, both of which she wrongly thought too painful to bear. She hadn't meant to keep Christine separated from her soul mate, the only man she ever truly loved.

"Erik," she whispered, her heart sore from missing him, wishing to be with him.

The evening continued its slow advance as she passed the minutes in silent reflection. At long last the moon arced high in the heavens so it now shone through her window, casting light on the dresser. Christine tensed, her heart racing.

The time had arrived.

She turned out the lamp and approached the mirror, quenching the sudden dread to be near it. Fear whispered to her heart, of failure and death, but she refused to listen.

_Please, Father, let him hear me. He's been through so much misery in thirty-three years. Please let me be the encouragement he needs not to do something so foolish as to end his life._

Tentatively, she pressed her fingers against the glass. "Erik? Are you there?" Her voice shook despite her attempt to keep it steady. "It's Christine."

Silence answered her plea.

She shoved her neat rows of cosmetic bottles to the side, not caring that some fell over and a plastic vial rolled to the floor. Sitting with her hip against the dressing table, she leaned close to the mirror. "I'm here, my love. Don't lose faith. I'm coming to you as quickly as I can, but I can only attempt to do so when the moon is full. Tomorrow night ... Please, Erik, tell me you hear and that you understand."

Discouragement, thick and suffocating as a blanket, wrapped around her when no answer came. Had he left the estate? Was he even in their room? Was all this for naught?

Attempting to breach time to get her desperate message of hope across to him, she continued to entreat his reply, yearning for an answer, even one word, one whisper.

She lost track of how much time passed as she sat perched on the dresser, her hands planted on the mirror, her cheek pressed against its cold surface. Seeing the moon had risen another notch, she realized not much time remained when suddenly she thought of how she might vocally slip through this doorway between dimensions in a manner he was certain to hear. If he could hear anything at all.

"Angel of Music, search no longer, I'll come to you, dear angel ..." She sang as if she stood in the bright spotlights of the Paris opera stage and not in her cramped flat at half past midnight. "... Angel of Music, my love, my husband, I long for you, dear Angel."

When still no response followed, she bowed her head to the glass in dejection and closed her eyes. "Oh, Erik."

"Christine?"

At the faint disbelieving whisper of both entreaty and shock, she jerked upright.

"Erik?" she breathed, her heart pounding against her breast. Then louder, "Erik!"

"My beloved ... Christine."

"I'm here, Erik!" Tears of happiness choked her to hear his familiar, beautiful voice. "Yes, it's your Christine. Oh, my dearest love, I'm here, and I hear you! _I hear you!_"

"My sweet Angel of Music …"

His whisper came fainter than before, so soft, she almost didn't hear it. With alarm she noticed the moonbeams had shifted from the mirror. Almost the entire dresser now stood in shadow; only a sliver of light remained on the glass. Even if she tried to move the heavy antique to again catch the light, the moon had ascended higher and was now entirely out of range.

"Erik—listen to me! I'm coming back to you tomorrow evening. Don't do anything rash! Do you hear? I'm coming back," she cried loudly in desperation, entreating him again and again until her throat burned. She ineffectively slapped the chill glass with her palms until they stung, wishing to break through, no matter if she cut herself in the process. Nothing mattered except returning to him and being with him.

"I'm coming back," she rasped on a tremulous breath, tears wetting her cheeks. "I'm coming back …"

When no reply came, she knew the magical window in time had passed. For a brief moment, no more than seconds, they had connected; she felt certain of it.

She only hoped it was enough.

**xXx**

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! :) **


	9. A Nightmare

**IX**

_Christine sat quietly before the looking glass and smiled at the image of Erik the mirror revealed; she paid scant attention to her task, more interested in watching her husband while he slept. As she brushed the tangles from her hair, she kept her gaze on his lithe form. Though scarred, his strong shoulders and back gleamed like sculpted marble above the sheet. Her body still tingled with warmth from the feel of him pressed against her, inside her, and the pleasure of his hands and mouth on her skin. Giving a contented sigh, she pulled the brush through her hair with one final stroke. _

_The full moon washed the mirror in a sudden glow of blue-white, diverting her attention to the top corner where a silver line seemed to ripple. How odd that the glass should reflect the light in such a way ... though the piece was quite lovely, it was also very different with its plethora of strange carvings, the manner in which it had come to her also peculiar. The wedding present had been delivered to the estate a week before from "an old acquaintance of the family" who wished to remain anonymous; the unsigned letter that accompanied the dressing table merely stated the sender wished "to repay old debts" asking Erik's permission to bestow a gift to his young bride. The missive gave a brief description of the dresser's many attributes; among them mentioned: "… moonlight brings out the detailed splendor of the hand-carved wood to its greatest advantage, rivaling even the exquisite loveliness of your fair vicomtesse …" _

_Sharing her husband's delight for things of beauty, Christine instructed the servants to place the vanity dressing table near one of their tall bedroom windows, where the moon visited each night; she never had a servant draw the curtains due to her aversion of the darkness. Erik had observed her childish excitement with quiet regard, his answering smile faint, though tense. Assuming his worry lay trapped in the past, she had walked over and embraced him in an attempt to bring him back to her. Though he never spoke of it she had a feeling his anxiety stemmed from his interim away from the opera house, before they'd met._

_Erik once told her that three years before she came to live at the opera house, he visited the world outside, his curiosity to see and experience what he'd read about in books getting the better of his adventuresome spirit. He told her he hoped to find someplace in the world that didn't reject him for his face; a populace that might look beyond outside appearances. Sadly, he had failed. _

_He seldom spoke of those days, which brought such pain, even remorse to his beautiful gray-green eyes. Remorse that troubled Christine. When he did speak of his short time in Persia, his words were limited, relating to intricate detail of the beautiful mosques and other exquisite architecture, never to what he did while living there. Even upon giving such general descriptions a frown wrinkled the pale skin between his brows and his eyes grew intense, haunted. She didn't wish old ghosts to mar his happiness, or hers, and would then change the subject to something light or personal, teasing a smile from him or, to her delight, a laugh. The occasions on which he laughed were rare, but when he did show such amusement, the deep, rich sound inspired joy in her heart ... And yet, despite her desire to escape the distressing knowledge of those things that occurred before they met, she sensed one day the terrible unknown would catch up to them both and they must then face the consequences together._

_A flicker caught her eye, again breaking her from her musings. How very strange ... _

_She averted her gaze from Erik's reflection, where it had again wandered, to the center of the mirror. A ripple suddenly pooled out from the middle and wavered in slow, growing circles, one outside another, as though water composed the mirror and a pebble had been dropped on its surface. Stunned, she watched, scarcely daring to believe the image playing out before her. She closed her eyes then opened them, certain her need for sleep created such an impossibility, nothing more than an illusion. _

_The mirror shimmered like an inviting silver pond. It mesmerized Christine, making her feel lethargic. Her eyes grew heavy and she struggled to keep them open. Her hairbrush fell from her hand. _

_The mirror's brightness intensified as the ripples pulsed at a swifter rate. With a languid motion, she stretched out her arm, to assure herself the mirror remained solid. Her fingertips pressed against the glass. _

_A cold wind stirred Christine's hair, and her hand became imprisoned. She gasped and tried to move it, then her entire body backward, but failed. Her limbs grew as heavy as stone. The mirror became hotter with each second that elapsed, like liquid fire searing her hand. She gasped again, hoarsely, the scream she wanted to issue trapped inside her throat. The wind increased to gale force as the eerie light within the glass intensified, blinding her eyes. Before she understood what was happening the mirror sucked her into its depths. _

_She catapulted head over heels through nothingness. After what seemed an eternal span, she struck hard wood, scraping her body at the harsh impact and rapidly sliding along a floor into a wall, striking her head. She awoke, the back of her skull throbbing, with no knowledge of how much time passed. Terrified, she crouched inside an area that remained cloaked in deep darkness. _

_She tried to prevent herself from coming undone, uncertain of exactly what happened or how she arrived to this place — wherever "this place" was. Hell? For surely she felt as if she'd been ensnared in the deepest, darkest pit ... but no. Her body ached too intensely to be dead. And it was too cold to be the door to Hades ... a door. Yes. She must find a door out of here._

_Trembling, she staggered to her feet and felt along cold stone walls. She did find a door, at last, locked from the outside. The handle wouldn't budge. _

_Imprisoned inside an unrelenting world of pitch black, she tried not to scream. Who would do such a thing to her? And for what purpose? _

_"Erik," she whispered, "where are you?" Desperately she wished for his comforting arms around her. Fear such as she'd never known threatened to make her run blind with panic. She groped in front of her, searching for obstacles that might make her stumble. Through touch, she located another wall, a window, a cloth, and pulled away a curtain. _

_The full moon shone over a well-manicured lawn and she realized she was in the attic room of their manor house. She only visited this room once, when they first came to England and Erik bought the place. How on earth had she come to be here? One thing she did know; she would not stay and wait until dawn broke for a servant to find her!_

_A network of ivy formed a latticework of ropes outside the stone walls, and she prayed her lifetime experience in the ballet served her well now, since she saw no recourse but to climb three stories to the ground. Frantic to find help, to find Erik, Christine eased her body over the ledge and grabbed hold of the sturdy vines. Careful not to step on the trailing hem of her bed wrapper, she swung herself over and began her descent. Pure terror made her breathing falter and her body shake. More than halfway, she stretched her bare foot low for the next foothold but lost her grip, and plummeted far downward — the hard, pebbled earth rising fast to maliciously greet her ..._

Before she hit the ground, Christine awoke with a startled gasp. She shot up to a sitting position in bed, her face and body soaked in perspiration. Her heart fiercely pounded in fear as she stared across the room at the dressing table cloaked in dim shadow.

Had it only been a nightmare? Or the return of a memory?

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to inhale deep breaths then just as slowly release them. She suspected the latter, more than suspected. She knew it; she felt it. Her nightmare had been her reality.

A nightmare she must soon relive.

Horror whetted her anxiety to a razor edge. From the professor's translation, there was no other way to reach Erik. She had no alternative but to enter the mirror to find her way back to him; but the truth of its evil now penetrated the former veils of her naiveté. To know of and see the dressing table, then later claim ownership to it had been her goals, ever since she could remember being in this century. Now she sensed the reason for such a strong and unusual desire had rested deep within her heart's knowledge that the only way back to her beloved was through the antique. But since she'd attained yet another goal of remembering what happened that night, even to be in the same room with the piece terrified her.

Christine nervously averted her attention to the glowing red numbers of the bedside clock. 3:33 ... a new day had begun. The magical hour would soon be upon her; it must happen when the full moon rose tonight. At the frightening reminder, she hugged her knees to her chest and shut her eyes against the grave weight of the imminent undertaking she faced.

Even if the dangerous passage through the mirror harmed her as it did last time or, God give her strength, killed her in the process, she must go through with this. Now that she'd been given back all knowledge of her true destiny, of her full identity, she could not live without him.

Tonight she _would_ be with Erik. In life ...

... or in death.

For her, there was no other way.

**xXx **

**A/N: ****Thanks for the reviews! I appreciate them. :)**


	10. The Confession

**X**

Christine flicked on the lamp and reached for Gran's journal, knowing further sleep was an illusion at best. Only a few pages remained left unread, and she turned to where she left off. Here the appearance of the words were less precise, the handwriting poor, the letters shaky.

_The doctor told me I have months to live; so be it. I have enjoyed a long, full life and will gladly go to meet my Maker and be reunited with Phillip. Yet as my mortality continually reminds me of its lingering presence I find myself pondering over past moments and events I wish I could now go back and change, and am brought to one troubling realization. If I could live any part of this life over, it would be in the choice I made regarding Christine. Before my days are ended I must seek absolution in the only manner I know how, the only manner a coward like myself can redress._

_In the beginning, I told myself that I withheld the truth for her protection. While that is of course true, if I am brutally honest, I must also admit to a hidden agenda. Christine was the daughter I never had and always wanted. In my selfishness not to live out my final years alone in the great echoing monolith of my husband's ancestral home, I shielded her from the truth of her past, because I wished it. I feared she might attempt to find a way back to her world and leave mine. So I did all I could to prevent that from happening. _

_On the first day I brought her to the Chagny manor she seemed to recognize it, though she said little, and I worried about that. I soon realized then that this must have been her home for a short period before she came into our century. In my devious purpose, I wove the lie that all manors in England resembled one another; still she often seemed troubled and I wondered if she sensed a connection to the place during the few short months she shared it with me. Once she moved into a flat when I went to hospital, I was greatly relieved, oh treacherous woman that I am. But I digress. _

_The life I wished to give her, while it has lacked nothing in creature comforts, in shelter, and in love, the love that I as a mother would have given my daughter, has not been enough. I see that each time I look into her somber brown eyes. They haunt me, containing a sorrow too deep to contemplate and too painful to ignore. I had hoped she could forget the knowledge of her life before she came to me, but though she retains no memory of it, her heart knows. Her heart remembers. She doesn't realize that in her sleep she still cries out for Erik; the pitiful longing in her voice wrenches to the very marrow of my dark soul. _

_I have told my attorney that Christine should have my journal when I have passed on into the next world. And so, Christine, as you read this, please realize, I harbored no ill will toward you. I never meant to hurt you, but now I must face the truth of my petty actions and admit that I have done just that._

Christine's eyes widened at the words, as if Gran spoke to her from beyond the grave. The eerie sensation made her skin prickle.

_In a wrapped parcel of my belongings, you will find the blue bed wrapper you wore when I found you. Since the day you learned of the dressing table, I have tried to abolish your interest in the piece, but I now realize a force beyond my understanding is compelling you toward it, to learn of it, perhaps the same force that brought you to me. I fail to understand how such an occurrence could have transpired, but I am beyond any doubt that transpire, it did. What I can tell you is that I never wished for you unhappiness; but you won't be truly happy until you find what you crave, and that for which your heart cries out — the life to which you were destined, the husband to whom you belong. _

_I had no right to prevent those events from taking place, but even had I wished it, I held no knowledge of how to send you back. Yet, though I am now dead as you read this, I seek your forgiveness. I only wanted your best. It may be of little consolation after learning of my deceit, but I thank you for the happiness you gave this selfish, lonely old woman. _

_You may wonder why I waited until now to reveal this, instead of telling you while I was yet alive. My reason is also selfish. I cannot bear your hatred, what you must now surely feel toward me, and so knowing my sojourn on this earth has ended, I have made certain you learn the truth after I'm gone, by writing this last entry. _

_I have instructed my attorney that you are to have the dressing table should you ask for it. Be careful, my dear, it holds a strange power, one that I fear you, too, will soon discover. I am afraid for you, and I wish you all of God's protection as you attempt whatever it is you must to find your way back to wherever it is you belong. I only know it is not here, no matter how I may have wished it. It has never been with me; it has always been with Erik._

Christine closed the journal on the last page, her emotions a jumble of conflict. Despite everything, she didn't hate Gran; she was hurt and angry, but didn't hate her. Gran had acted out of a mixed sense of fear and love and need, and possessed no true knowledge of the heavy cost her decision would inflict. Christine knew that; still it stung.

Her heart skipped a few beats in anxious expectation as she set down the journal and collected the wrapped parcel from the box of Gran's belongings. Bringing it back to her bed, she untied the string and withdrew a length of blue satin from a former century. _Her_ century.

Creases over a year old lined the shimmering wrapper edged in detailed lace. The hem and other spots were soiled, but otherwise the expensive material was in good condition. She brought it close to inspect it further and inhaled a shaky gasp. A faint hint of Erik's scent still infused the cloth: the smoke of wax candles, the sweetness of black ink, the masculine aroma of _him_.

Christine sank back on the bed, burying her face in the satin and breathed deep, wishing to absorb this intimate trace of his existence into her every pore. She hugged the wrapper close to her heart, as if by doing so she held Erik.

After some time, she carefully laid it aside. She pulled her sweat-dampened gown over her head, slipped out of her panties, and padded naked to the shower. As she stood under hot jets of water and cleansed her hair with shampoo and her body with a rose-scented scrub, she thought of the modern conveniences to which she'd grown accustomed; none of it mattered when compared to a life with Erik. He was all she wanted.

As she finished her morning ritual, she pondered that much could be said for a slower pace of living. No rushing to get everywhere and, often, nowhere at all. No quick showers under which to stand ... in its place, a claw-footed tub of perfumed, heated water in which to relax, where at times Erik sponged her back and twice even joined her. No uncomfortably hot blow dryers ... but the lingering warmth of sunlight to dry her thick mane of curls.

Modern appliances were nice, making the task of running a household easier. But their absence had no effect on her in the nineteenth century; in her era Erik employed a household of servants to tend to such things. In the month they'd been married, she spent her days in the company of her husband, taking long walks on their estate, helping him compose, singing arias for him and with him, and learning how to play the piano. She'd also taken up the skill of needlepoint, among other creative ventures, as he often sat across from her and drew or painted her likeness. God, how she missed their life together! Because of her lapse in memory, she'd never understood the extent of her loss, but what had this time without her been like for Erik who remembered everything? Had he carried the same heartache she currently felt, a hollow relentless pain burning deep inside her chest, for _more than a year?_ Recalling the legendary ghost story of their tragic experience and his efforts to reach her, calling out for her, she knew he must have.

"Oh, my poor love," she whispered, tears glazing her eyes as she pulled away the towel. "My poor dear Angel."

It had been an eternity of eighteen months since they'd cruelly been separated. Now Christine nervously wondered as her eyes skimmed downward ... what differences would he see from how he remembered her?

Standing before the full length mirror on the door, she wiped the condensation away and noted the changes a year and a half had made to her body. She'd grown taller, but felt certain she still stood far beneath Erik's great height. Her breasts, still firm, had matured and were fuller, but she'd lost weight elsewhere due to frequent bouts of melancholia, which had led to severe loss of appetite. In places, blue veins could barely be seen beneath her pale ivory flesh, and the bottom of her ribcage and a few other bones protruded slightly, making her truly close to skin and bone. Faint hollows rested beneath eyes that appeared larger than ever; indeed, her features seemed almost gaunt, her cheekbones and elfin-like jaw even more sharply sculpted than before. By the current society's warped standards of "the thinner the better," she supposed she was still considered beautiful, and knew she would please her husband, no matter her appearance, but the toll of her protracted suffering was evident. The year before, she attributed her frequent bouts of depression to her inability to remember; now she felt she understood. Even without knowledge of Erik's existence she had missed him.

She turned sideways, continuing her merciless inspection. At least her form was still graceful, her posture rigidly correct, something Madame Giry ingrained in her during her years of the dance. The only item out of order had always been her hair, and the previous year, after Gran found her, Christine chopped it shorter, just brushing her shoulders. Perhaps as an act of subconcious rebellion, she now wondered? But the thick brown locks almost reached her waist again, and dripping wet they hit the top of her buttocks. Despite the nuisance her wild hair often created, she was glad at least that part of her would look the same to him. She recalled how Erik loved to bury his face in her thick strands and loop her long curls around his slender fingers.

The sudden awareness that she would be in his arms — this very evening — made her grip the countertop hard to steady herself. She dared not think of what could go wrong. She must believe she would be with him again.

In her bedroom, she donned her satin wrapper, pulling it tightly around her body and encasing herself in Erik's scent. She allowed herself only a brief moment to close her eyes and soak him in. There was much to accomplish before the night's full moon rose against the sky; it was high time to put her affairs in order.

Without meaning to, she looked toward the dressing table for the first time since she woke. Remnants of fear tormented her and she struggled to suppress the new memories brought on by the nightmare she had lived.

She would _not_ give in to the fear.

Determined, she left for the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil, when another horrific thought struck her, so dreadful, so plausible ... the container fell from her numb hand, spilling water all over the tiles.

**xXx **

**Thank you for the reviews everyone! :)**

**FemmeLoki—I'm sorry you received the chapters out of order—fanfiction didn't send the update notices until a couple of days after I posted—problems they had I guess—and when they did send them, they were all out of order. (rolls eyes) lol … about Christine's age, let me explain where I'm coming from as I've written her character: I've met 16 year old girls who seemed more like 25, and 25 year olds who acted 16. So, to me, I don't think it's the age so much as the experience one has (the life one lives) that makes a person mature. :) JMO. My research showed that in former centuries, women had to mature faster than in present day for survival—(there were no "teenagers" then; the word "teenager" didn't even come into being until 1925—interesting, huh?) –Daily life was much more difficult in the 19th century and people went from childhood straight into adulthood. 16 was considered an adult and of marriageable age. Some children (mostly commoners) never had a childhood but were treated as adults from the time they could walk and talk. In my story, though she lost her memory, she retained the character of who she'd been; also why she was considered old-fashioned.**


	11. Another Riddle

**XI **

At five minutes past six, the bell to her flat buzzed and Christine let Antonia inside without a word.

"Professor Mallory called before I left work and asked me to pass on the message that he sent you an email," her friend said in greeting. She hesitated and peered more intently into Christine's eyes. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, thanks." Christine averted her gaze to the short corridor. "I better see what the professor has to say." She hurried into her bedroom and opened the window with her email account on her laptop, which sat on the coverlet where she'd left it.

"That's some outfit." Antonia had followed and stood in the doorway, admiring Christine's blue satin and lace wrapper.

Her mind tangled in a frightening web involving both past and present, Christine didn't respond.

Antonia directed an apprehensive glance to the huge antique taking up the middle of one wall before moving beside Christine and concentrating on the laptop. "Mind telling me what this is all about?"

"I took pictures of the carvings on the dressing table and sent them to the professor, the ones he said were unclear."

"And he called me to make sure I told you to open his email straightaway, since he didn't have your number," Antonia added with interest when Christine added nothing more. "I thought he sounded a bit keyed up and nervous, which is odd for him. He's generally so easygoing. My grandfather used to call him Milk-toast Mallory, back in their university days, but he was anything but spineless on the phone. Quite demanding actually. Of course, after the space aliens got hold of him and injected him with their power serums, it made him into a man." She heaved a sigh. "_Christine!_"

"What?" She continued staring at the screen after she hit the button to retrieve new mail. Her stomach twisted in turmoil at the frightening places her mind took her in the hours before Antonia rang the buzzer.

"Is something wrong? You haven't heard a word I said."

She closed her eyes. "I've been thinking about all that's happened, involving everything we've discovered …" She bit her lip in unease and looked up at Antonia. "Last night I connected with Erik. I heard him beyond the mirror, and I'm sure he heard me."

Antonia's eyes widened. "Christine, that's fantastic!"

"Is it? I thought so too, at first. Now I'm not so sure." She swallowed over the lump in her throat. "Antonia, what if my words to him are what pushed him over the brink to do what he did? To … take the poison." She could barely get the awful words out.

"I'm not sure I follow."

"What if, when he heard me say I would come to him, he thought I was a _ghost_ speaking from beyond the grave?" She took a deep, shaky breath. "I read the last of Gran's journal this morning. She spoke directly to me, addressing me, and that's what gave me the idea … what if Erik took his life because my words last night pushed him to do so, because he thought I was coming for him, not _to_ him, and he ended his life in his desire to be with me?"

"That's a huge 'what if'. I'm not even sure it could work that way, that the future could play a part in altering the past. And I doubt Erik would think you're a ghost."

"Why not? I thought him a ghost when I first heard his voice in the mirror. And what if he _is_ a ghost — what if he's already dead? Perhaps I'm hearing his tormented spirit, and this entire plan is for naught," she added, lifting her palms with an agonized shake of her head. Her heart felt ripped in two with the treacherous words that burst from her, as if suddenly unchained. She _felt_ unhinged.

"Christine—"

"Even if my plan to return succeeds and he's alive," she went on, ignoring Antonia, "I'm living in an age of higher education and modern technology. He's not. If, in the 19th century he inhabits, he hears my voice beyond a mirror after more than a year following my disappearance – why should he even think I'm alive and will come back to him through time?" Her words came frantic as panic crushed any remnant of calm or reason. What was logical about anything concerning this mad state of affairs? Nothing, nothing at all!

"He's a genius, but who exists in our century to tell him about the dead language of Persia," she fearfully persisted, her tone rising, "and the curse put on the mirror by who knows what monster – and all the curse entails? Who's there to tell him about alternate histories or parallel universes or time portals? _Who's there_ to tell him of such current discoveries? Oh, Antonia, he _must_ think I'm a ghost. What else could he think? In my desperation to reach him, I've made him a true ghost – it's my fault he died! My God, _what have I done_?"

The sharp sting of Antonia's open hand across her cheek stopped Christine mid-tearful rant. Panting, she blinked in shocked surprise and stared open-mouthed at her friend.

"Sorry, but it's not like you to get hysterical," Antonia explained. Christine slightly nodded, hurt by the unexpected act, her gaze going out the window to the skeletal trees lining the walk.

"What I think …" Antonia's words came tranquil and slow, the quiet voice of sanity. "… is that you must calm down." She sank to the bed beside her. "I'm sorry I slapped you, but you simply must stop dwelling on what you cannot possibly know. You're going to drive yourself batty if you keep this up, and you're well on the road to Bedlam now. Since there's no way of finding out what we don't know for certain, and we just don't have the luxury of time to attempt it, you need to cast those questions without answers from your mind. We're dealing with two different dimensions and not enough time left in either one to figure much of anything out. But we do have dates, and those dates parallel. Today's date and the day he died parallel the span of time since you left him."

"I didn't leave him." Christine's words come out sharper than she intended.

"When you were abducted through the curse," Antonia calmly rectified. "With that knowledge, chances are very good that he's still alive. That is, alive in his century, of course."

Closing her eyes, Christine let out a slow breath. "You're right; I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you or shout like that. I suppose you were right to strike me and shake me out of the state I was in."

"Feel a bit calmer now?"

Christine nodded. "Though God only knows I've been a frightful mess all of last night and today. My feelings have been on the craziest roller-coaster ride, looping far beyond …" She searched for a word to describe her scope of emotions, but none would suffice. Terror, dread, anxiety, all were too mild for what raged through her soul, and she helplessly shook her head.

"No need to apologize. If I were in your shoes, I doubt I'd be as together as you've been throughout this whole ordeal. I mean, my God, Christine – after more than a year you just found out that not only are you in the _wrong_ _dimension of time_, but exactly _who_ you are. And that's far from ordinary. Nor is your husband – ordinary that is. Accounts were written about both of you – I looked it up. Legends were born from all of what happened in Paris. Even before the ghost story surfaced you were quite famous." A hint of awe entered her voice.

Christine felt unnerved by Antonia's admiring words. Though she had indeed sung her opera debut for members of royalty, even the Emperor Louis-Napolean III, only Erik had ever made her feel truly special.

Antonia reached for Christine's hand on her lap and squeezed it. "As for your bit of panic earlier, everyone's entitled to an outburst now and then as far as I'm concerned, and you were long overdue." She gave a smile meant to reassure. "So, with that behind us, let's see what the professor has to add. Maybe he can help shed more light on what must be done."

Christine nodded, returning Antonia's smile, thankful for her unwavering support. She clicked on the link to the first of two emails from the professor. "He was able to translate more," she said under her breath excitedly. Her friend looked at the screen as Christine read aloud:

"'Through none but the spirit of Spenta Armaiti can centuries break the chains of Sonnillon.'"

"Terrific," Antonia groused. "Another bloomin' riddle."

Christine sighed. "Maybe if I do a search of those names I can come up with something."

"You do that, Luv. I'll put the kettle on to boil. I only just came from work and am parched. You could probably do with a cup of strong tea as well?"

"Yes, please. Sorry I didn't think of it straightaway," Christine murmured, her words distracted, but Antonia had already left the room.

Christine took another deep breath as she typed the names in the search engine. She must pull herself together. Antonia was right about that; those things she couldn't possibly know mustn't affect her resolve to attempt what needed to be changed … Erik had to be alive! Gran once told her that she believed everything happened for a purpose. All these discoveries coinciding at the time directly before his death, in a parallel dimension, had to be more than sheer happenstance. There must be a reason for her learning of this now – and she felt it must be to _change_ the dire future set in motion through the curse.

A rush of new adrenalin swept through her as hope again took hold and she battened down all misgivings. For the next fifteen minutes she researched. Concentrating on historical documents helped her mind to calm and regain perspective.

Antonia returned with two steaming cups of tea, and thanking her, Christine took hers, leaning back against the headboard. She took a sip, thinking over her discovery.

"The names are of goddesses from Persia and Armenia," she informed Antonia. "Spenta Armaiti is the goddess of devotion and unconditional love. And Sonnillon is the goddess of hatred. So, substituting the definitions for the names, it would read, 'Through none but the spirit of devotion and unconditional love can centuries break the chains of hatred.'" She looked at Antonia who nodded.

"It makes sense."

"Perhaps, meaning only love can break the curse?" Still, Christine sensed something more, something that yet eluded her. If she could just push back those cloying veils that still hid part of the mystery and fully understand …

"What does the second post say?"

Christine clicked the link to open it. The note was brief, and a tremor of shock made her eyes widen in disbelief as she read the message, its tone chillingly concise:

_Once through time, mortals fly; twice through time, mortals die._

_**xXx**_

**Thank you for the reviews!**

**FemmeLoki—corsets and "waist training"—LOL! You said it. And I know what you mean. They had to have been invented by a man! LOL**


	12. The Revelation

**XII**

"Blimey," Antonia whispered. "Well, that needs little translation. I'm so sorry, Christine."

"Sorry?"

"That your plan failed."

"My plan hasn't failed. This changes nothing."

"You _cannot_ be serious." Behind the glasses, Antonia's eyes shone with disbelief. "You read that translation — you'll be killed!"

A strange calm had settled inside Christine coupled with a deep-seated knowledge that she must follow through and alter nothing. Last night she had faced this possibility, after reliving her nightmare, so it didn't come as the grave surprise Antonia thought it. Whereas earlier Christine had panicked, now she experienced an odd sort of peace, as if she'd fought a long battle with destiny and at last surrendered to its terms.

"There must be a way to reverse the spell," she assured her friend. "You heard what the professor said. Otherwise, why inscribe those messages to begin with? They wouldn't even be needed."

"I doubt the magician or sorcerer or whoever inscribed those curses on the mirror was thinking at the time for a way out for the unfortunate dope who got sucked into his trap."

Christine winced, and Antonia halted her acerbic tirade. "That came out wrong. Sorry. I didn't mean any of that the way it sounded."

"I know. But what if ..." Christine stared at the message on the screen, her mind exploring possibilities. "What if whoever inscribed the dressing table with the messages was acting under orders? What if he was _forced_ to obey against his will, and also secretly put his own message there as a warning — one that showed a key to the reversal? Otherwise, why even put the key to the riddles among the curses?"

"You're living in a fantasy world of what ifs. What ifs won't protect you or save you, Christine."

"That's what unconditional love does — it saves," and as she said the words, she gasped, feeling she at last understood the missing key. "It involves sacrifice …"

"Figurative, not literal," Antonia argued.

"… and giving all of yourself, if necessary, to save and protect the one you love." Amazed she hadn't seen what was right before her eyes, she whispered the words in escalating excitement. "Only pure, sacrificial love can destroy the hatred that created the curse. Only a love so deep can break the chains of the curse itself … 'Through none but the spirit of devotion and unconditional love – _sacrificial love_ – can centuries break the chains of hatred.' Love destroys hatred."

"You're reading more into this than is there. You can't even be sure that's what it all means."

Christine ignored Antonia's pointed arguments and set aside her laptop. It all became clear to her, as though a beam of light streamed into her mind. That fateful night, in Erik's lair, had she not shown unconditional love, _sacrificial_ love, and in so doing, saved all three of them - herself, Erik, and Raoul? The kisses she had given Erik, her willingness to do what she must to save all of their lives had literally changed everything, even broken the chains of hatred when Erik then surrendered his vengeful plans!

Hurrying to the window, she drew the curtains wide so she could see the moonlight when it filtered through. Dark clouds cluttered the sky, and she felt a pang of anxiety, wishing she could scatter the thick veil of them. What if the moon didn't show tonight? What if it rained again?

Briefly she closed her eyes, agreeing with Antonia that it was time to stop living in the land of "what if?" This _would_ work. It had to.

"Help me move the dressing table."

"What? Why?" Antonia went to one side of the antique though it was evident she felt ill at ease to be near it. Christine didn't blame her. She now detested the piece, but it was her only hope of getting back to Erik.

"I want to position it so that when the moon comes in through the window, it shines full on the mirror."

"You're still going to take such an awful risk, knowing you might fail?" Antonia spoke as she helped Christine slide and angle the heavy vanity dresser so it faced the window. The edge ended up flush against the foot of the bed. "That you could even _die _in the attempt?"

Christine set her side down the fraction she'd lifted it, breathing hard from the exertion. Antonia followed suit and set her side down with a soft bang on the shag carpet.

"Whether I die in my attempt to reach Erik or I die slowly from an empty heart knowing he's forever lost to me, I will at some point die." Her words strengthened her resolve. "If it must be one way or the other, at least allow me the pleasure of believing I'll draw my last breath while being held in his arms. Of being with him once more."

"And if you _do_ die, what makes you think he won't follow through with _his_ plan?"

Christine winced, her frustration rising. "I don't know, Antonia! But I cannot sit idly by, knowing what I now do. I have to try to save him. To save us!" She spread her hands wide, her tone pleading. "I have to do this, can't you understand?"

"No – no I can't understand," Antonia shot back. "I've never known such crazy love. I've never loved anyone like that … and while I fear for you and am angry with you, I can't help but envy you. I see that deep love you talk about shining in your eyes, the amazing transformation of your face just when you speak his name. You glow; you sparkle. And I'm jealous. It sounds petty, but there it is. I've always dreamt of having a love like that."

"Then I pray one day you'll find it. Because to be loved so deeply by the one you love in return and with the same measure … I cannot begin to describe to you the wonder of it, Antonia."

Her friend shook her head as though she still thought Christine had gone daft.

"Have you considered the culture shock you'll experience? For a year and a half you've been a 21st century girl. Now you want to go back to the 19th century, to a time without laptops or autos – or ice cream vans driving through the neighborhood to bring you a Mocha with Raspberry Swirl cone." She named Christine's favorite sweet, and they both let out a tense laugh.

Christine noticed the distress in Antonia's eyes, and wished she knew what to say. "It's all right, Antonia, really it is." She sank to the bed, and drew her legs up beneath her. "I remember the life from which I came, and I don't need anything this century has to offer more than I need Erik. Actually, I prefer a slower pace of living. I always thought I was simply old-fashioned. Now I realize that is the life to which I was truly born."

Antonia said nothing, only looked away.

"I want you to have everything of mine after I'm gone; there's not much, but it's yours. All except the dressing table – that goes to Professor Mallory. I've sent him a brief note; he alone will know what to do with it. If it helps him in his work, excellent. If he chooses to destroy it, even better. I posted an email to Gran's lawyer, naming you as my successor if I should quite suddenly disappear. So no questions should be raised in the event. I also wrote a will in my handwriting and had it notarized with a neighbor witnessing the transaction. I sealed the missive in a manila envelope you'll find on the kitchen table."

"My," Antonia said quietly, her expression no less strained. "You have been busy today."

Christine smiled at her friend's sarcasm, understanding fear as its source. "There's also a locket of an enameled rose. At a glance, I can tell it's extremely old, though the chain is much newer. I've had no time to evaluate it, but I assume it belonged to an ancestor of Gran's or perhaps the General's. It's yours as well."

"Don't you want to take anything back with you?"

"No. I'm wearing only what I wore that night. I fear if I bring anything from this century with me it might interfere with my return." She shrugged. "Perhaps that sounds foolish, but I don't understand enough about all that's happened to know, and I don't want to take chances."

"It's very beautiful," Antonia whispered, touching a creamy fold of the tiers of exquisite lace that billowed from Christine's sleeve. Her words were melancholy, giving Christine concern.

"Please don't be sad."

"How can I not be?" Antonia scoffed, tears filming her eyes. "I can stand here and try to talk you out of your crazy plan 'til I'm blue in the face, but what good would that do? You're as stubborn as they come, Christine. And the crazy thing is, deep down, even though it just about kills me to admit it — I know you're right. This is the only way for you. You've never been happy here, even before you remembered Erik."

Christine thought about Gran's similar admission in her journal. "No, I haven't, but our friendship was special to me. I'll never forget you … assuming, of course, I retain the memory of this past year." She shrugged, uncertain.

Antonia gave a humorless laugh, casting a look full of loathing toward the dressing table.

"Antonia?"

"I resent all of this because either way I'm losing your friendship." She looked at Christine. "Before you came along, I never had a true friend. I'm entirely too cynical and selfish and secluded …"

"You're not—"

"But if anything were to happen to you, how the hell would I even know?" Antonia cut her off. "How will I know if you make it back to the 19th century in one piece? I have no way of knowing, and I'm not the least bit sure how I'm going to deal with that. Or even if I can."

"If I do retain my memory, I'll find some way of letting you know I made it back safely. I promise. And I also plan to tell Madame Giry and Meg all about you. I think it would delight them to know they have a descendant who shares all their fine qualities."

With a wry smile, Antonia shook her head. "No need to butter me up, Christine. You've already won. I told you I'd support you, and I will. I may not like your decision to do this, but I won't let you down."

"Thank you." Christine laid her hand on her sweater sleeve. "That means the world to me."

They passed the sluggish hours in more research, but found no further aid. For herself, Antonia took pictures of Christine with the digital, even holding the camera at arms' length and managing a few shots including both of them.

Christine glanced at the window, realizing the hour had grown late. It was nearing midnight. As she watched, the clouds slowly parted then drifted away, revealing the full moon. It suddenly bathed the dresser in a strong white glow. The mirror seemed to waver.

Her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and excitement, she looked at her friend just as Antonia turned to look at her with the same apprehensive awe.

"It's time," Christine whispered.

**xXx**

**Thanks for reading! :)**


	13. Beyond the Mirror

**XIII **

Horror-struck, both women stared at the dressing table illuminated in the brilliant light of the full moon. From the center of the mirror, a ripple wavered within the glass, a slow circle that metamorphosed and spread out in ever widening circles. Hypnotic … mysterious … entrancing.

"My God, look at that," Antonia said in terrified wonder, echoing Christine's shock.

The nightmare intruded to the front of Christine's mind, the image before her proof that the dream reflected the reality she had lived.

She glanced out the window. A thick cloudbank from the east crept toward the moon. "I have to go now," she whispered anxiously, knowing that the window of time would soon forever close for her, that she would never again have this opportunity.

Antonia hurriedly moved forward to embrace her. "I'll never forget you."

Christine returned her hug. "Thank you, my friend, for everything." She retreated, gripping Antonia's arms. "And if I am able, I'll not forget my promise to you."

Antonia gave a short nod and stepped back, swiping at the tears that glistened on her cheeks. Christine returned her attention to the mirror, the moment of truth at hand.

The ripples grew even more erratic as she watched. The surface of the mirror glowed ever brighter, a liquid pool of hot silver. Though the window was shut, a brisk wind began to blow inside the room, and she heard Antonia gasp.

Steadfast in her resolve, Christine approached the dressing table, the wind whipping her loose curls all around her. She swallowed hard over her fear and clenched her hands into fists, a flurry of thoughts and memories spinning inside her mind as fast as the ripples that now spun outward in the mirror.

_Once through time, mortals fly … __Through none but the spirit of unconditional love can centuries break the chains of hatred ... __You must acknowledge the source, the power of the evil, in order to understand how to fight it … __Twice through time, mortals die ... __One must return to the place where it all began. Armed with a pure heart, with faith, and with courage. And, the key to understanding … __Only the full strength of the beacon of Al-Mah captures the key to time … _

"I love you, Erik," she said below her breath. "You are everything to me. And I would do anything for you."

Christine closed her eyes to slits against the harsh glare; the mirror's surface blinded her, painful to look at, as bright as a sun searing her eyes.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil," she whispered, as heat from the mirror scorched her face. Trembling, she gulped in a shaky breath as she climbed atop the dressing table, drawing her bare feet flat against its surface. "For thou art with me ..." From behind, she heard Antonia recite the verses with her, and it bolstered her courage. "… Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."

Taking a deep breath, Christine pressed her palms to the burning glass. In that instant her mind grasped a knowledge more powerful than the evil that tried to weaken and destroy her strength of will. And firmly she spoke the words now rooted inside her heart.

"Love … conquers … _ALL_."

A huge explosion of blinding white light shot out of the mirror and surged over Christine. She felt her body, as though weightless, whisked through the now vaporous glass as if by a giant unseen hand.

**X**

Plunged swiftly into sudden darkness, she struggled to breathe. Pain, heavy and relentless, spread fiery tentacles through her chest at her inability to take in oxygen. Her head throbbed and swam as she began to lose consciousness. Her body went limp and her eyes fell closed as the unending blackness sucked the very life from her lungs.

She hit the earth fast and hard, something solid breaking her fall, the impact rapid enough to send her and what she'd hit hurtling to the ground. As she lay there gasping for all the breath that had been denied her, her senses became aware, and she realized she lay prone on top of a warm, hard body. A man's body.

Her eyes flew open, and she met a pair of dazed gray-green eyes.

"Erik." Her voice shook, pent up emotion finding its release in disbelieving tears. They clouded her vision and rolled to splash down his neck above his velvet robe. She had done it. She had smashed through the window of time and she was alive. "Thank God," she breathed, her voice trembling.

"Christine …?" Erik's rich baritone came just above a whisper. He barely touched his fingertips to her face as though he felt he'd conjured up her image and she might disappear from sight. A lone gas lamp shed light from above, and she discerned doubt mixed with hope in his eyes, the fear that this was all yet another dream.

"Yes, Erik, it's me. I've come back to you." Her hand covered his, so tangible, so warm, and she pressed it against her cheek. "It's me, my Angel. I'm real. Not a dream. _Touch_ me." She buried her lips against his palm then kissed the inside of his fingers. "See? I'm real, my beloved, I'm real ..."

Her tender caresses and assurances, the dampness of her tears and the warmth of her body against his all worked together to snatch the veils of stunned disbelief from his mind.

"Christine!" he exclaimed hoarsely.

He crushed her to him, his arm securely fastening around her, the fingers of his other hand spanning the back of her head, holding it fast against his shoulder. She held him just as tightly, afraid and unwilling to let him go. How long they lay on the floor and urgently embraced one another, Christine didn't know. Nor did she care.

Her cheek against his skin, she inhaled his warm, masculine scent, the aroma of candles, of her own century… of Erik.

My God, she was home. She had truly made it. She was here, with him.

His muscles jerked beneath her and his chest shuddered as he helplessly gave vent to his long held fear and misery and the knowledge that their anguish had at last come to an end. She held him, smoothing her hands down his powerful chest and arms as she both comforted and shared in the tearful release of their agony and fear.

His hands went to either side of her head and pulled her face away from his shoulder, his mouth finding and crushing hers. His seeking tongue anxiously rediscovered the soft warmth of her mouth – his kisses, hot, intense, desperate. The dampness on his cheeks blended with her own as she kissed him back with an equal mix of passion, relief, and need.

She wove her hands through his hair, and he rolled with her until she lay beneath him. He broke their kiss to look at her, to touch her cheek, her jaw, her lips, his fingers shaking. He shook his head slightly as if even now he struggled with disbelief. A smile of wonder slowly tilted his lips.

"My God. It really is you," he whispered. "You're here."

"I'm here." She raised her hand to his twisted cheek. "Never again to depart."

He kissed her again, softly, eagerly, his lips following the curve of hers. Suddenly he broke their kiss and moved off of her, his eyes glowing with grim determination.

"Erik?" she pleaded, reluctant to break their embrace.

"Stay back, my Angel," he commanded, stroking her cheek. He stood to his feet and removed the gold satin counterpane from the bed, handing it to her. "Cover yourself with this."

Confused, she did so, and peered above its edge. Before she could question, she saw him raise the dressing table bench high above his head.

"NO MORE!" he roared and hurled it at the mirror. The bench literally disappeared within its depths. She shrieked in alarm as the infinite crack of splintering glass assaulted her ears. An explosion rocked the air. Blinding white light flashed and shot outward, and Christine dropped the blanket in horror, afraid he'd been harmed – or worse.

"Erik!" she, cried half stumbling to her feet.

Where the mirror once had been now remained nothing but a great gaping hole, outlined by jagged glass. She moved to where he still stood, greatly relieved to see him there and unharmed, and she pressed close against his back, clutching his shoulder. He held his arms out to the sides, to protect her, and retreated a few steps, pushing her back with him.

Stunned, they watched as the wood caved in on itself with a horrendous creak and groan that seemed to go on forever. Sparks of silver and gold shot high into the air in all directions and a loud hiss departed from the wood, like escaping steam. All became still, the only sounds in the room, their rapid breathing. Christine gasped as she stared at the smoking ruins of the once beautiful dressing table, now nothing more than an ugly pile of broken, charred wood, which at once before her awestruck eyes dissolved into heaps of gray, steaming ash.

In one fluid motion Erik turned and swept her up in his arms. He strode with her the short distance to their great canopied bed and sank down at its edge, holding her close in his lap. She wrapped her arms around his middle and melted against his strength, soaking in his warmth, feeling a sense of security for the first time since they'd been parted.

"It's over, Christine," he whispered. "It's finally over."

"Over," she repeated softly, hardly daring to believe it, intensely grateful it was so. She moved her forehead from where it rested against his neck to look up into his beautiful eyes. For an eternal moment they stared at one another, reacquainting themselves with every feature. In concern, she lifted her fingers to the ridged part of his cheek and a thin line of blood from a wound that must have been inflicted by a fragment of the exploding mirror.

"Erik, you're hurt."

"No, Christine. No longer do I feel any pain. My heart knows too much joy that you are at last with me."

He took her hand in his and kissed her fingertips, one by one, then leaned close to brush his lips gently against her parted ones. She whimpered for more, and his mouth firmly covered hers. Their desire escalating, his tongue reunited with her own as they tasted deeply of each other. His body felt solid and welcoming against her supple form. Her heart beat faster, dizzy with the sensations he aroused and the need for him that rose as swiftly.

With all that had happened their robes had loosened, offering glimpses of flesh and brushes of its warmth, both of which they now grew keenly aware. Erik's large hand curved at her bare waist and slid high inside her robe, cupping the fullness of her breast; with one light caress his thumb brought the pale pink bud to swift hardness. She groaned with longing at his coveted touch and slipped her hands beneath the edges of his robe, at his shoulders, impatiently pushing away the material while she ran her palms across his heated skin. The restrained passion forced on them for over a year abruptly exploded and swept them in its smoldering wave as they eagerly pulled one another down to the bed. Frantic, searching, hungry ...

Lost in the present reality, she lived her dream with her lover, gasping as he took her places she had long missed and desired to go. An eternity of this … yes, she wanted all that had been denied them, and more.

His skilled hands and mouth worshipped her quivering skin, rediscovering the bounty of its hidden secrets, and awakened the low flame that always burned quiet and steady for him, beneath the surface, for more than a year. Now that flame roared upward in an inferno of blind, hot passion that threatened to consume her.

And she wanted to be consumed … by him … forever.

Tears of being reunited misted their eyes, ardent endearments whispered from their lips as at long last Erik joined his body to hers. The impact of their union was so powerful, so incredible and beautiful, Christine cried out from the sweet triumph of it, the knowledge that they again utterly belonged to one another winging through her soul. He took her to heights she'd dreamed of and now relived and yet lived anew, as if for the first time. Together, they ventured to the stars and created fire in the heavens through which they soared; until, trembling with blissful release, they drifted gently back to earth, holding fast to one another.

He stroked her bountiful hair and silken flesh, unable and unwilling to keep his hands from continually touching her, soon needing to wholly possess her again; she brushed kiss after kiss against his hot, moist skin, hungry for his touch and to touch him. And soon the mutual embers of their desire once more ignited, taking them to a world of rapture where only they belonged.

Questions. Answers. Explanations. All could wait. For Christine there was only Erik, and for Erik, only Christine. For this night … and for all dimensions of time.

**xXx**

**Thanks for the reviews:) LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath—it's called the hidden plot :) … regarding the moon--research shows it was used magically, in curses, etc. throughout history. I'm pretty sure that's where the werewolf idea came from too.**


	14. A Mystery Solved

**A/N: I relied solely on memory for the backstory of Persia, since I no longer have Kay's book to consult. Whatever doesn't fit just consider my own adaptation for my story. :) **

**XIV **

Christine slept only briefly. She awoke, smiling to feel Erik's heated mouth kissing her neck, the warmth of his arm possessively across her waist as his fingers caressed her. In the dark, she could barely make out his form, but he was _there_. Her heart pounded with desire and her senses reawakened with pleasure. Tears wet her eyes to realize this was no dream from which she woke to find herself alone. This was real; _he_ was real. Never would she be without him again.

He took her soaring to the heights and tumbling over into sheer ecstasy, again and again, all throughout the night. At daybreak, she woke him in the same manner, taking her time to rediscover the planes and sinews and muscles of his hard body, which responded to her every touch, and eagerly she took the initiative, pleasuring them both through the fiery consummation of their love.

Exhausted, she fell weakly against him, beyond mere contentment, and he held her close. Sated for a time, they rested against one another as the first fingers of dawn pushed through the gap in the damask curtains. Erik had drawn them against the glow of the full moon the previous night, and for the first time in her life Christine had welcomed the darkness, secure in the knowledge that she was safe in her husband's arms.

She lifted herself slightly to look at him, and they tenderly gazed into one another's eyes, still at a loss for words and withholding a fount of them. The moment of their reunion too sacred for speech, neither had spoken since he destroyed the mirror, except to whisper heartfelt endearments while they made love.

Erik brushed his fingertips against Christine's cheek, his eyes searching every detail of her face in the morning light as if he still couldn't believe she was with him. Remembering her fears of the previous day, Christine also had trouble believing she truly had been reunited with her husband, though the wondrous feel of him still buried inside her helped to dispel those doubts.

Suddenly he rolled over with her in their enormous bed and playfully pinned her beneath him, both of them quietly laughing like children from the pure delight of being with one another. He leaned in to give her a languorous kiss, tender, warm, intimate. Christine's hands smoothed down his scarred, strong back, her present happiness far exceeding any anxiety of the past few days. Those fears seemed to exist in another dimension, and she realized with a muted giggle – they did.

Neither of them heard the door open to realize they had company. The maid issued a shriek that startled them apart and could have wakened the dead. A breakfast platter fell from the woman's hands and crashed to the floor. Crossing herself, she took turns staring in wide-eyed horror at Christine then the ashes where the dresser used to stand, all the while backing out of the room. Once in the corridor, she slammed the door shut behind her, her footsteps taking off at a frenzied run.

Recognizing Matilda, Christine sighed, knowing they must soon emerge from their sacred haven now that she'd been discovered. "What should we tell the servants?"

Erik looked at the mess Matilda had left on the floor. "I will think on it. Doubtless, from her reaction, she believes you to be a ghost. Many supposed you were killed and your body disposed of; a few still think I had a hand in committing such a horrendous act." His voice came quiet, pained.

Christine recalled his death notice and the vial of poison. She considered asking him about it, but decided to keep such knowledge to herself, at least for the time being. She didn't want to introduce matters that could cause them both more pain. Her hand covered his arm and her throat tightened when she realized how close she'd come to losing him. Yet no matter how she wished it, some issues couldn't be avoided, and before she encountered those of her acquaintance, she felt it prudent to equip herself with the facts as they occurred.

"Tell me what happened, Erik. Tell me all of it."

Briefly closing his eyes, he gravely nodded. "After Scotland Yard gave up the case, I persisted. I refused to cease in my efforts to find you and began my own investigation, but that, too, proved unsuccessful. Months ago, I received a visit from an old friend, the Daroga – a detective I knew in Persia. He overheard talk at the palace relating to your disappearance and realized a plot was involved when one of the men confirmed delivering a dressing table to me and that it had achieved its purpose. The Daroga sailed to England to give me aid."

The _palace_? She took in a startled breath, realizing how little she knew of his life before the opera house. Too long she'd run from the possibility of anything marring their hard-won idyllic life together, including mention of his past. But ignorance, she had learned, was its own form of destruction. "Why was there a plot against you?"

His eyes grew distant, even apprehensive. "You do not wish to know, Christine."

"Yes, I do. Stop shielding me from whatever it is you've done, Erik. With all that has happened to me – to us – I think I deserve to know why," she insisted gently, firmly clutching his arm. She lifted her other hand to stroke his shadowed jaw in reassurance. "After all we've endured, after all I know about you, do you truly believe anything you can say would change what I feel for you and harm our love? That I would ever allow anything to separate us again?"

"I was a different man than I am now. Different than I was even at the opera house. Hardly befitting the term Angel, as you so often still choose to call me."

"Tell me," she softly insisted, recognizing his ploy to evade a difficult subject.

A shutter seemed to fall over his eyes as his lids closed halfway, but he curtly nodded. "Very well. You _do_ deserve to know what I became. I was appointed as the Shah's magician. And his assassin. The toll of lives I have taken is great."

His words didn't shock her; she knew him once capable of murder and that he'd killed at the opera house; but she also came to understand the desperation that had driven him and that he'd since changed.

"Why did you do it, Erik?" she inquired in a whisper.

"It was my life or theirs," he admitted grimly. "I was a young man, in my early twenties, foolish in many ways. The Shah ruled the land; his word was law. To oppose him was to invite a slow, excruciating death."

"Then you had no choice," she said simply.

"Not if my choice was to draw breath; and some faithless part of me yet held on to the fallacy of life."

"Don't talk like that." She hated when he so wryly and carelessly spoke of his demise.

With a weary sigh, he fell onto his back. "It was how I felt then, Christine, when I was alone and had no one. Not how I feel now that we belong to each other." He pulled her close again. "In marrying you, in learning my heritage, so many things changed for me. I found a sense of self worth I never had before."

Overjoyed by his words, she stroked his arm and smiled, but knew there was more. "Tell me the rest. I want to know all of it."

A slight pause ensued and at first she wasn't sure he would speak. "The Shah held a sick fascination for my deformity and my skills, as did his mother, the Khanum." His voice grew hard at mention of the woman. "I believe he secretly wished I would one day refuse his commands, so as to watch me suffer my own execution. I remained alive solely to provide his entertainment and the Khanum's amusement. The only way I could survive, though I had long ceased to feel human, was to bury my black soul and become as wretched as they were. Both delighted in the macabre and most treacherous of traps and pleasures. The Khanum was more evil than her son, later employing my skills to create … a torture chamber of sorts, one in which no man could survive."

She shivered at the mental image her mind created. "And the Daroga?"

"He had some sort of misplaced faith in me, never giving up on my wretched carcass though to this day I fail to understand why. I certainly gave him no cause to feel anything but disgust. It was through him I learned that the Shah decided I must be eliminated. I had come to know too much, you see. Nor could I continue in the vein I'd chosen and resist complete madness; and so I escaped Persia, leaving many enemies behind. Enemies who would not so easily forget."

Christine thought over all he revealed. "You did what you must to survive. No one could accuse you of doing differently."

"The blood of the unfortunate who perished beneath my hands cries out in opposition to your words," he countered dourly.

She craned to look up at him. "And the Daroga – did he also blame you or take you into custody? Being a detective, was he not sworn to uphold the law?"

Erik regarded her with curious amazement. "He acted under the Shah's orders, as did all who valued their life."

"So he didn't consider you a murderer, to be jailed and punished?"

"Perhaps not, but that doesn't change the fact that I was one. At that period of my life, before I came to know you, I detested all members of the human race."

She sighed, at last fully understanding. Trapped in a perilous dilemma, he'd been required to perform both magic and murder, which led to his reasoning for a defensive need to strike out and eliminate those he considered a threat at the opera house. Now, also, she understood the basis for the guilt he tried to conceal, which so often surfaced in his nightmares to the point he would cry out in his sleep words of contrition and terror, to what must be the ghosts of those whom he killed.

"Tell me about the Daroga," she urged. "What happened after he arrived?"

"I showed him where I'd last seen you, by the dressing table." His hold on her grew unconsciously tighter. "I heard you scream. I saw you vanish." His voice grew hoarse. "I woke upon hearing you cry out. You were there, and then you were gone, swallowed in a rush of white light like a magician's trick I once performed. I felt I must have still been dreaming, but I looked and called out but couldn't find you." His jaw tightened, his eyes closed. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. He clasped her fiercely around the waist, needing to hold her, to reassure himself he wouldn't lose her again.

Christine saw his remembered anguish and nestled closer to his side, embracing him tightly, her cheek pressed against the swift beating of his heart. His hand cupped her head and, as he relaxed, he began to stroke his fingers through her hair.

"The Daroga recognized the inscriptions on the mirror as similar to symbols he had seen on an ancient stone in Persia; a dead language no longer used. That such symbols should decorate a dressing table of European craftsmanship, coupled with the knowledge of the conversation he heard at the palace made us suspect foul play, a curse."

Christine drew a breath in amazement that Erik had discovered all she had learned and lifted herself to look at him. His eyes burned brightly.

"I copied the symbols onto paper, and the Daroga took it with him to Persia to investigate. I remained behind; I feared being absent from the manor in the event you returned. I did not understand then, what I soon came to know …"

A tap sounded on the door. "My lord viscount?" the butler anxiously inquired. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, thank you, Bertram," Erik snapped out hurriedly before the man could enter, forestalling a similar incident of what happened with the maid. "I do not require your services this morning."

A pause ensued. "If you are certain?" He sounded troubled. "Matilda was quite beside herself, certain you had come to some sort of … dire consequences."

"I am most certain. All is well. Very well." He shared a smile with Christine, his eyes never leaving hers as he continued, "I shall be down presently. Assemble the staff in the drawing room at noon. I wish to speak to them."

"Very good, sir."

Erik again relaxed once the butler's footsteps faded. "I have no desire to share you with anyone yet," he explained, keeping her close. "Once they see you walk into the drawing room on my arm, then will come the time for revelation. For now, we have more to discuss."

She nodded in agreement, impatient for him to continue. "What did you come to know?" she continued where he left off.

"The Daroga learned a member of the Shah's palace, someone who harbored a great deal of animosity toward me, ordered the dressing table made to resemble one crafted in Europe. He had a spell placed on it to punish me. To kill me would not have brought as much satisfaction as to see me suffer a slow, inescapable torture. The fiend had learned of my obsession for you at the opera house and all that transpired there, sure you had been forced into our marriage, and so his curse would remain intact. Only through an act of true, sacrificial love – your love for me – could the spell be broken. A message to that effect was also inscribed on the mirror."

She looked up at him, amazed at his findings. "How did you learn all of this?"

"The Daroga helped to decipher the messages and also located the craftsman who put them there. He acted under orders of one who wielded great power."

"Who?" she breathed.

His expression remained blank though fire kindled in his eyes. "It no longer matters; he is dead and can no longer harm us. I did not kill him," he added, as though reading her mind. "Though I gladly would have run him through with my sword for what he did to you. Nor did the Daroga kill him. He grows too queasy at the sight of blood to have committed the act." Erik's brow lifted in amusement. "In some matters, my friend is weak; in others, he is stronger than I could hope to be."

"I should like to meet him," she said, thankful to the Persian for aiding her husband in his time of need. She sensed he had been a strong encouragement to Erik.

"You will. We will invite him to dine with us this evening, and perhaps we should send a messenger to invite Raoul to join us. He's also in England and will be most pleased to hear of your return."

Christine pulled away from Erik's arms and sat up to gape at him, her eyes widening at such an unexpected statement of benevolence where Raoul was concerned. Erik chuckled at her stunned look, and drew her back down to the bed. He shifted to his side, propping his head on his hand as he smiled at her, and resting his other arm possessively across her midriff.

She returned his smile, lifting her finger to trace his full lower lip and the cleft in his strong chin. "You and Raoul have made your peace then?"

"Your disappearance eclipsed his anger at losing you as his betrothed, and of losing his title to me."

"I'm delighted to hear both of you have finally let bygones be bygones."

"It was no easy task," Erik muttered. "At first, he blamed me, certain I'd murdered you, and threatened to do all he could to see me in prison."

"Oh, Erik. No." Christine gasped. "What happened?"

"He later admitted I must be innocent since I refused to give up the search when the police did. I would not let it rest. He was here on the day the Daroga arrived and also learned about the symbols and the curse on the mirror. He became an ally and took part in helping me investigate. While I wouldn't say we are close, we are no longer enemies."

She shook her head in wonder, remembering how Raoul's descendants had been ordered to duplicate the mirror if ever it broke, down to the last symbol. "And did you come to understand exactly what happened to me?"

"That you went through time, into a different dimension?"

Her mouth dropped open again in surprise that he'd known. This time he didn't laugh.

"With the Daroga's help, I translated most of the messages and realized if you did come back, it would be on the night of a full moon. While this concept of other dimensions and traveling through them was peculiar to me, I have seen and experienced too much in the way of magic – sorcery and the black arts – to discount the possibility. Through study of the inscriptions, I came to believe you must have entered a time when the cycle of the moon paralleled the days of this year. If I could have done so, I would have gone through the mirror and searched for you, Christine, but one of the riddles made it clear that only 'the daughter of destiny' could pass through the mirror. Every night, regardless of the phase of the moon, when your absence was hardest to bear, I spoke to you through the mirror, hoping you would hear me as you did at the opera house. Since we learned of the curse, I have waited, praying somehow you would return to me."

Hearing the strain again coat his voice, she pressed her hand against his ridged cheek. "Oh, my love ... the night before last, I sang for you. Did you hear me?"

"I did." Moisture rimmed his eyes. "This past year and a half without you … no words could describe the torment I have suffered. But these past two days surpassed any hell I previously experienced. When you sang to me … after I heard your sweet voice, the Daroga gave me the last of the translations. The woeful message led me to believe you could die if you attempted to return to me; and so, I had given up what little hope I had left .…"

His words trailed off in misery, and she was certain this discovery had been the factor that led to his decision to end his life. Again she thanked providence that she'd not been too late to prevent his death.

"'Once through time, mortals fly; twice through time mortals die,'" she intoned quietly.

He looked at her in surprise. "Yes. I was certain if you passed through the mirror a second time, you would be killed, and I feared I had lost you forever." His eyes filled with dawning wonder. "You knew the truth of the message and passed through the mirror regardless?"

"Erik, I would have done anything possible to be with you again."

"True, sacrificial love," he whispered in awe, and she softly nodded.

"May you never again doubt what I feel for you," she softly chided, recalling their days at the opera.

"Those days are long in the past. I was a fool ever to doubt you." His head lowered; his lips when they touched hers were tender, adoring, and she wrapped her arms loosely around his neck, delighting in the feel of his mouth on hers, of her body pressed against his warmth.

"I have something for you," he said suddenly, moving away. He opened the small drawer of the nightstand and withdrew something from a small box. "I intended to give it to you for your birthday, when last we were together … "

She gasped, remembering. It had been the week of her birthday when she'd been abducted through the mirror. She had turned seventeen, and that memory led to a thought. In the future century, her relationship with Erik, even their marriage, would have been considered illicit due to their ages. How thankful she was that she'd been born into this 19th century when such things were permitted and "teenager" wasn't even a word in use. With no modern conveniences, life was more difficult; children matured quickly into adults, in part due to stricter upbringings - though, if her age _had_ been an issue in this time period, she would have waited as many years as she must to marry Erik. She couldn't imagine having anyone else as her husband.

He drew near again and held his hand closed above where she lay, his smile soft and mysterious. Slightly, he released his hold. A gold chain dangled from his fingers, and something metallic and cold dropped between her breasts. The chain followed as with gradual ease he moved his hand to and fro above her, letting the links slowly fall in a cool stream that trickled against her skin.

She gasped, taking the enamel-rose gold locket between her fingertips. The locket had been _hers!_ A film of moisture wet her eyes.

"I had it specially made for you," he said. "A token in memory of the single roses I sent to you at the opera house, the rose to which I compared you. Beautiful, fragrant, delicate." His smoky green eyes shone with adoration. "You are my rose, Christine."

She blinked tears of happiness away. "I'll treasure this always, Erik. I love you so much."

"Christine, I assure you, not even the span of time could extinguish the measure of my love for you."

"Not even the span of time …" She cradled his face between her hands and brought his mouth down to hers, thankful that whatever the years may hold in store for them, the present would always be theirs to share.

**xXx**

**Thank you for the reviews:) One more chapter to come…**


	15. A New Future

**XV **

Antonia sat behind the desk in the library's research room, sorting papers and trying to keep her mind off last night's bizarre events. Christine had disappeared in a fiery explosion of white light, sucked into the mirror as if through a vacuum. Antonia had witnessed it, though she still had trouble believing it.

She broodingly put her hand to the locket around her neck, a token that offered proof – that her friend had gone, that it happened as she saw it – helping to confirm her sanity. But Christine's sweet gift did nothing to dispel her concern, which multiplied with the passage of each hour, and sleep last night had been non-existent.

Had Christine made it back to her time period? Or had she been killed in her brave, headstrong, impetuous attempt?

A tap sounded at the door, intruding into her ghastly thoughts. It opened a fraction and a man appeared at the entryway. Her heart gave a strange sort of lurch as his clear green eyes met hers across the room.

"I hope I'm not interferin'," he said, his accent bearing a slight Scottish lilt.

She raised her brow in question. "May I help you?"

He smiled in an endearingly boyish fashion, his manner friendly as he came the rest of the way into the room. Dark hair, thick and wavy, grew a little long, past his ears. He stood tall, in blue jeans and a designer gray sport shirt, his form lithe, muscular, trim.

"Miss Giry, I presume? The woman at the desk directed me here. The professor asked me to pick up some books you're holding for him. I'm a friend of his."

"The professor," she repeated as if suddenly minus a few brain cells.

"Professor Mallory."

"Oh, of course. And you are?"

"Sorry, wasn't thinking. I'm Erik." He stuck out his hand across the desk for her to shake. She took it, barely aware of what she did though she was all too aware of the warmth that shot through her arm at the contact. "I lend a hand now and then in helpin' with his work." He drew his brows together curiously. "Is something wrong?" He had stopped shaking her hand and now held it in his large one, staring into her eyes.

She took a steadying breath. "I'm sorry. It's just I've heard that name recently. It's nothing." She snatched her fingers from his hold, unnerved by her unwanted reaction to him.

"Somewhat of a common name, I imagine. It's been in our family for generations."

She felt foolish for overreacting at the coincidence. He stared at her, as if confused, and she wondered what was going through his mind. "The books?" he prompted.

"Of course! Sorry." She pushed aside items on the desk, hunting for a specific one. "Do you have a list? I forgot to put them aside when he gave me the titles over the phone yesterday and I seem to have misplaced the memo I wrote them on. I've had rather a lot on my mind."

"He didn't tell me their names. Just said a stack of books should be waiting for him."

"I see. Well, I'll give him a ring then, shall I?"

She picked up the phone and dialed, reaching the professor on the third ring. He again recited the titles to her when she explained her memory lapse and she jotted them down a second time: books on Persia and to her shock he added a request for a non-fiction title investigating the possibility of time travel. Did he suspect?

"Regarding those pictures your friend sent of the dressing table," he said before she could inquire as to the reason for his new interest. "I'm unable to open the attachments of those I hadn't yet looked at. Would you mind letting her know? I would like to delve more deeply into the translations this weekend." An undercurrent of excitement layered his words.

"I'm sorry, Professor, but Christine left town. I'll get you what you need though. I intend to go by her flat to collect some things after work." She hesitated. "Erik's here now."

"Is he? Put him on! He's my aide, you know. A right good fellow."

"He wants to talk to you," she said in a bit of shock as she held the receiver toward him. She had half thought the professor would call Erik's bluff. She'd never known Professor Mallory to hire an assistant since he once mentioned he preferred working alone.

Antonia watched while Erik spoke, his attractive face animated as with lilting words he expressed his opinion to something the professor said. A dusting of dark hair peeked from the edge of his unbuttoned sport shirt. With casual ease, he settled his hand on the hip of his well fitting jeans. She realized she was staring and returned her attention to her files, trying to remember what was next on her agenda. Ah, yes, the titles. She ripped the memo from its pad, determined not to lose this one as she stuffed the paper into a roomy pocket of her cardigan.

Erik ended the call, handing the phone back to her. "The Professor wants me to take a look at a 19th century dressing table." He said the words in doubtful amusement, as though sure he must have heard wrong. "Said he'd like my opinion on the piece."

"Yes, well …" She felt more than a little uncomfortable at the prospect of going anywhere alone with this man. Still, he was a friend and assistant to the professor, so she reasoned he must be safe, since Professor Mallory was very choosy about those he called friends. She made her decision.

"Meet me here at half past five and I'll take you to the flat."

"Thank you, Miss Giry. I'll be here."

She hesitated. "Call me Antonia. Almost everyone does."

His eyes grew intent as they studied her face with what looked like shocked confusion.

"Is there a problem?" she asked.

"No." A ghost of a smile lifted his lips. "Half past five it is then. Antonia."

Her name on his lips and the soft way he said it made her shiver a little with pleasure. She watched him leave the room, suddenly uncertain and troubled by her response to him, and wondered if she'd just made a huge mistake.

**xXx**

With the professor's books in a sack safely between them, Antonia stared at Erik as he drove to Christine's flat. They'd decided to take his red Ginetta sportscar, rather than her mini, or rather, he'd decided. His strong hands gripped the wheel with arrogant confidence while his foot remained leaden on the gas pedal.

The car sped past buildings that flashed by in a blur. Antonia restrained herself from digging her short fingernails into the upholstery, feeling as if she were on the wildest ride of her life – literally and figuratively. With the wind whipping about her face, loosening strands of hair from her pony tail, she pushed her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose and cleared her throat.

"Must you drive so fast?" she called out above the engine's roar.

He chuckled and decreased his speed.

A bit put off by his attitude, she frowned. At least now she could hear herself think and there was no need to yell. "Why have I never seen you in town before? And why has the professor never mentioned you? He's a regular guest of my grandfather's, who lives at my mum's, and he's forever talking about his students and other teachers. But he's never once mentioned you."

"I've been away at school, in Edinburgh. My mother was a Scot, my father a Brit," he explained. "I only came home last week."

"And where is home?"

"The Chagny Manor."

"What?" She bit the word out in surprise. "Then, you must be the new owner? The man who plans on tearing that beautiful place to the ground?"

He sent her a puzzled sideways glance. "I've no intention of tearing any place to the ground. The manor is my home. Since my father's death a year ago, it was passed down to me, but I've only just come home t' live."

She looked at him with suspicion. "The General was your relative?" His words didn't ring true; Gran had no biological children and she'd never heard of any extended family. Nothing he said made sense.

"The General?"

"Gran de Chagny's husband." Most everyone had known Christine's adopted grandmother as "Gran" and Antonia was no exception. When he shook his head, showing his ignorance of such a name, she stressed, "Christine's adopted grandmother – _Gran_."

He sent her another glance as if she were daft. "I'm sorry. I dinnae know anyone by the name of 'Gran'."

"Well, you must! She lived at the manor for the past forty years!"

"You're mistaken. Only the caretakers lived there while I was away."

"Right. And the funeral and auction were all figments of my imagination too."

"Funeral? Auction?" He shook his head. "Now that I think on it a woman named Ethel was married to my great uncle, a general from the Second World War, though he's long since been dead. I believe she lives nearby …"

"Just skip it." She blew out a disgusted breath at his pensive words. What kind of game was he playing? "So tell me, _Erik_, just who are you and what are you doing here?"

He raised his brow at her cynical pronunciation of his name. "Forgive me. I should have introduced myself by my full name earlier. I am Erik de Chagny. The manor is my ancestral home."

Antonia stared, her mouth dropping open. "You're not serious."

"Why would I joke about that?" He gave her another quizzical look. "As to why I'm here, if the fact that I own the manor isna enough for you, I've decided to catalogue its antiques. I'm openin' a museum at the musical conservatory."

"Musical conservatory?" she repeated blankly. Suddenly she was grateful she wasn't driving; had she been behind the wheel, they might have plowed into a tree.

"In London. Surely you've heard of the Chagny Music Conservatory?"

Antonia blinked. Could the professor be playing a practical joke on her? She'd never known him to engage in tomfoolery; nor had he known Christine's story. There had to be a perfectly sound explanation for what was happening, but before she could interrogate Erik further, the flat came into view.

"This fascinating conversation will have to wait," she said dryly. "We're here."

He pulled the car over, shut off the ignition, but remained seated. He turned his head to look at her. "Who's Christine?"

"A friend. This is her flat."

"And where is she now? Will she mind me comin' into her home?"

"She's gone." Antonia managed to keep her voice level as a strong dose of worry again threatened. The question was, gone where? "She won't be coming back."

"Really?" He studied her a bit oddly.

Did he doubt her? Without bothering to reply, again irritated with the Scottish jokester, she exited the car and entered the building without waiting to see if he followed. Moments later, she felt his warmth close in behind her as she tried to use the key to open the door to the flat. She attributed the sudden weakness in her knees to all that she'd been through in the past twenty-four hours.

To her frustration, the key dropped from her nerveless grip, and he bent to retrieve it. Instead of returning it to her outstretched hand, he fit the key easily into the lock and opened the door for her.

She glared at him. He smiled at her.

"It's back here," she clipped as she walked ahead of him into the quiet flat.

She felt the sharp sting of tears as she realized that never again would she see Christine's sweet face or hear her warm greeting. Sensing his stare, she turned and caught his curious eyes upon her; in this lighting, and so close, they appeared a rich smoky green.

Catching her breath, she quickly moved away, now questioning the wisdom of taking this man to the bedroom; a stranger who appeared out of nowhere and claimed ownership to a house that simply couldn't be his. But she could see no way out of the situation without making herself look foolish.

_Get a grip, Antonia._

Last night had been very difficult and she felt overwrought; she was definitely overreacting. Likely, regarding the manor, he was just making up the story, perhaps to try to impress her. As for his name … she still didn't rule out that someone was playing a little joke at her expense. If not the professor, her two aloof co-workers had seen for days how engrossed she'd been in researching accounts regarding the mysterious tale of the Phantom of the Opera and his talented protégé, teasing Antonia for her keen interest and giving her yet another reason to want to quit her job there.

She moved to the bedroom entrance and stopped in her tracks.

"What the hell …?" The words escaped and trailed off as she walked to the place where the dressing table once stood.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, coming into the room.

"This is where it was," she turned around to address him. "The dressing table. It was right here – last night."

He surveyed her as if he didn't believe her. "Maybe someone took it."

"Right. It's every day that a thief would break into a flat to steal a heavy mahogany dressing table." And it was heavy!

"Well, it doesna appear to be here now," he countered.

"Do you doubt me?" she asked, her ire rising.

"I'm only pointin' out a fact."

She shook her head at his erroneous logic. "The laptop's still here. The camera too." The camera! There was her proof.

She turned it on, using the button to find recent pictures taken. There they were; she and Christine — but the dressing table that had once been behind them had disappeared from view, invisible. She sat down hard on the bed and upended a biscuit tin. It fell to the floor, its lid popping off and scattering contents everywhere.

"Blast!" She sank to her knees to scoop up old letters and photos. Erik did the same. Abruptly he tensed and looked up at her. "What's wrong?" she asked almost afraid to know by the suspicion narrowing his eyes.

He handed her an aged daguerreotype. The wedding couple wore clothes from a former century. She stared with shock at the man's likeness, and that of the woman next to him. Christine.

"How did your friend get my ancestors' photo?"

"What?" Antonia asked vaguely, looking at the living, breathing man across from her, unable to tear her wide eyes away from his face. There was no mistaking it; he could _be_ the man in the photograph.

"Your friend," he repeated. "How did she get my ancestors' photo? I have one like it at the manor. This couple is my great grandparents by three generations."

"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

"Of course I'm sure. Their portrait also hangs in the music conservatory they founded. In London. He was the first Count Erik de Chagny. He wore a half mask on the right side of his face because he was said to have been badly scarred."

The _first_? Then that meant … and his name really _was_ …

Antonia numbly stared at the Phantom's double before her then again dropped her gaze to the photo, the only image she'd ever seen of Christine's husband. She leaned heavily on one hand, feeling the strange sensation of the floor rise up to greet her. It was a good thing she sat on her knees. At least if she did keel over, she wouldn't have far to tumble.

"Are you all right?" He put out an arm to steady her.

All right? She resisted the urge to laugh hysterically. Her brain full of cotton, she tried to form an explanation, _any_ lines of information that would sound the least bit logical, but nothing surfaced. She looked at the photo again. The first Erik stood, almost in profile, keeping the right side of his face averted from the camera and toward Christine. Her eyes weren't playing tricks on her. Both Eriks were near identical.

At his wary perusal, as if he half expected her to begin wildly dancing through the room stark naked or dash out the second-story window, crazy as a mad hatter, she let out a barely sane laugh. Her fingers trembled as she handed the picture back to him.

"My friend; Christine." It was all she could utter.

He pulled his brows together, puzzled as he studied the daguerreotype, then offered her a careful glance. Clearly he didn't believe her.

"Perhaps this will convince you," she said more firmly, finding her voice. She pushed the camera toward him, showing him the pictures.

His eyes widened as he looked back and forth between photographs: one a daguerreotype from the 19th century, the other a digital taken the previous day. Both of the same woman, right down to the mole.

"It's uncanny," he murmured. "Remarkable. No' to mention impossible."

Antonia felt far removed from the world as she let out a wry laugh. "Oh, I assure you, it's quite possible. But you haven't heard anything yet. You won't believe what I'm about to tell you, and likely you'll write me off as some crazy lunatic, but this locket?" She held the oval up for his inspection. "Your great grandmother by three generations gave this to me last night - before she passed through a mirror, which has somehow since disappeared - and traveled back in time to another century to be with her husband Erik. They were separated through a curse, you see, involving the runaway dressing table." She laughed a bit feverishly, knowing how bizarre that must sound; but no more bizarre than these past forty-eight hours had been.

Erik peered at the locket, then at her, his eyes intent. He studied the indentations in the carpet where the dressing table had been, then looked at the pictures a third time; she could almost see the gears running inside his head as he tried to piece the impossible together. Suddenly he rose to his feet and held out his hand to help her up from the floor. "No' so crazy as you might think. Come with me. I have somethin' you'll want t' see."

The warm contact of his hand made her flesh tingle. Though it unsettled her, she didn't pull away, even when he moved his hand higher to grasp her upper arm. Right now, she needed the support. It would be much more humiliating to fall numb at his feet than to have him hold her up so that she could hold on to at least some semblance of dignity. She felt barely cognizant of her surroundings as he locked the door behind them and escorted her to his car.

Once they were seated inside, he pulled a book from a satchel on the backseat, handing it to her.

She looked at the leather-bound cover, its edges worn, and shook her head at him in confusion, but took the book.

"Open it."

She did, her breathing suspended in a strange sort of expectancy. She gasped as she read the faded print on the yellowed pages:

_The personal journal of the Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny, given to me by my husband on this fifth day of November, in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and seventy two: __For Antonia, my dear friend and most excellent librarian, within these pages is my promise fulfilled. Herein lays the happiness and heartaches of my life upon my return to Erik. When you hold this book, I will long be departed, sharing eternity with my beloved. I have never once regretted the decision I made on that terrible and magnificent night of All Hallow's Eve, when you and I said our final farewells and I again was reunited with my husband. He and I owe you everything; without your help, we never would have found each other again, and it is my fervent prayer that you also find the same measure of happiness with a man such as I have known with my Erik. When the opportunity comes, and it will, don't close your heart to the prospect, dear friend. You deserve every happiness.__The one constant I have learned in my rewarding life, the one morsel of wisdom I can impart to you is this: though the years may pass away and time may change things, love does indeed conquer all … _

"The first part of the book covers her days before becomin' a Countess," Erik said quietly. "I found it while going through items to be catalogued for the museum. It has posed something of a mystery. Thing is, no library existed in this part of the country in 1872, when she wrote that dedication to her 'librarian friend'."

Antonia gave the barest nod, dazed as she continued to stare at the artistic loops of Christine's familiar handwriting.

"And so, I take it you're the Antonia she referred to in the book?"

Again she nodded. At this moment, everything felt surreal. It wouldn't surprise her if the car sprouted wings and began to fly.

"I canna pretend to understand all that is happenin', but I canna dispute what my own eyes tell me, and I should like to hear your story, if you'd be willin' t' share it," Erik remarked his brogue stronger. "Over dinner perhaps?"

She looked up; his mesmerizing eyes held her spellbound. They possessed both a gentleness that reassured and a mystique that entranced. The fleeting thought winged through her mind that if Christine's Erik of the 19th century was half this alluring, she could begin to understand why her friend had been so determined to return.

"Antonia?" he prodded.

"Dinner. Yes, that would be lovely. I have no plans for this evening." She closed the book and held it carefully. "Thank you, for bringing me this. It's ... something I've been waiting for."

Erik nodded, a thoughtful look crinkling the corner of his eyes and a curious smile lifting his lips. Swiftly he pulled the Ginetta from the curb. It didn't fly, but Antonia felt as though she might. She caressed the burgundy cover of the precious, antique book, in awe over all she had learned, over all that had occurred. Perhaps the future couldn't change the past, but the past, once relived, most assuredly did alter the future.

Thinking of her steadfast, courageous friend, Antonia fondly smiled.

_Well done, Christine. Well done._

**xXxXx**

Thank you guys for the support and reviews. I'm so glad you enjoyed the story. :-)

I plan to write a sequel to this soon - look for it in 2009…


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